


Crash Course

by anon_decepticon, QoS



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, F/M, Humanized Transformers, Humor, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-08-01
Updated: 2010-10-31
Packaged: 2017-11-10 00:05:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 46,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/460015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anon_decepticon/pseuds/anon_decepticon, https://archiveofourown.org/users/QoS/pseuds/QoS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An accident turns the Stunticons into humans, leaving them naked and without resources in the California desert. Their only hope of getting their bodies back is to take a crash course in humanity, but if their enemies find them first, they might just end up roadkill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Start Your Engines

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to Fanfiction.net, where it garnered over 400 reviews, this fic was inspired by Monoshiri's "[Running on Empty](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/2856521/1/Running_on_Empty)", a story in which the Stunticons are turned into humans. We both liked the idea and the fic, but since it was last updated in 2006 and will probably never be finished, we decided to write our own Stunticons-turned-human story. We hope you enjoy reading it.
> 
> – anon_decepticon and QoS/mdperera
> 
> Thanks also to Kookaburra 1701 for her support and input!

**Chapter 1 : Start Your Engines**

Breakdown swerved onto the highway in the last drive he would take for a very long time.

He didn't know that yet. He was on just another assignment, scouting ahead as the Stunticons headed out to guard yet another device of Megatron's. The sun was bright overhead, the road deserted. There was no one in sight and Breakdown relaxed, increasing his speed and starting to enjoy the drive even with his sensors monitoring every mile of the way.

He saw a yellow blur in his rear-view mirror as Drag Strip zoomed up, leaving Wildrider and Dead End in a cloud of smoke and dust. Breakdown moved to give him more room; he certainly didn't mind Drag Strip roaring on ahead and attracting all the attention of whoever was currently on guard at the device.

Instead the racecar kept pace with him and his radio crackled. "So what's this device all about?" Drag Strip's gravelly voice said.

 _He wants something,_ Breakdown knew at once. Drag Strip never caught up like that just for small talk.

"It's a matter-energy convertible," he said. "I mean, converter. Supposed to make energon out of rocks and sand, I guess." Starscream had been vocal in his declarations that the device would never work or would destroy them all when it did, so the Constructicons had obligingly set it up far from the base and were preparing to field-test it soon.

Drag Strip chuckled. "Maybe we'll catch an Autobot and turn it on him." There was a pause while Breakdown listened to the rumble of powerful well-tuned engines and the distant pounding of hard rock that signaled Wildrider's presence. "Look, Breaks, do me a favor."

 _And here it comes._ Breakdown waited.

"I want to win the Formula One World Championship."

Breakdown couldn't help snickering. "Yeah? I want to rule Cybertron."

Drag Strip slewed hard in his direction, just enough to slam one forcefield against another with an electronic _szzzt._ Not expecting that, Breakdown skidded a little from the impact before he recovered.

"I'm serious!" Drag Strip snapped, all the wheedling gone from his voice.

"Okay, okay! Sorry I laughed. Go on with what you were saying about the, uh, Formica One Championship."

Drag Strip growled under his breath, but continued. "I can't just show up there. I'll need to be entered in their databanks, with a legal history and all that slag. I need you to take care of that."

"Huh?" Breakdown had thought he would be asked to provide a new paintjob and a cheering section. "You want me to hack into their computers for you?"

Another channel on the radio opened automatically and Motormaster's cold voice cut in. "Stunticons, get to our destination _now._ There's a report of Autobot activity near the converter."

"Right," Breakdown said and Motormaster cut the comm. The semi was miles behind them, his top speed nowhere near theirs. Breakdown floored his accelerator.

Drag Strip kept pace with him easily. "So you're gonna do it?"

Breakdown considered. He enjoyed hacking into human networks – it was like scouting, except that no one out there could see him when he did it. But the last time he had done that, on Motormaster's orders, he had actually gotten into the Pentagon's security systems when the Autobots had detected the activity. And they had tried to piggyback a virus onto his downloads, a virus that would have done Primus-knew-what to the network on the _Nemesis. ___

Fortunately Soundwave had caught the attempt and Motormaster had made the report to Megatron as well as taken the responsibility for it. But the near-miss was worrying, and Breakdown had decided that the next time he would have to be more careful. He also knew that he couldn't take that risk just for Drag Strip's race.

The correct access road was only a mile away. Breakdown sent a quick transmission to let Motormaster know they would be at the test site in a few minutes, then swerved off the highway. In his rear-view mirror he saw Dead End and Wildrider closing the distance.

"Well?" Drag Strip said impatiently.

"I don't think I can," Breakdown said. "At least, not now. I could try for next year's championship." He drove off the access road, all but bouncing over uneven ground as he headed for the coordinates they had been given.

"Next year's?" Drag Strip repeated. "Why can't you do it now?"

There was no road that led to the test site. Breakdown's tires kicked up dust as he dodged boulders, and he kept a wary optic on Drag Strip in case the racecar tried to cut in front of him. He cut enough speed to take a ledge that skirted a shallow valley that looked as though a river had flowed through it a thousand years before. The test site was just ahead.

"If you want to race so badly, why don't you take part in one of those road rallies?" he said. He came to the end of the ledge and took a sharp turn.

"Can't you tell the difference between the most famous open-wheel car world championship and a stupid little illegal rally?" Drag Strip said contemptuously as they shot into a bare clearing with sheer cliff faces cutting off most exit routes. He braked to a screeching halt and transformed, optics glowing behind his visor. "Millions of people will watch me winning! I'll get a gold cup."

Breakdown was still in alt-mode, but he shuddered involuntarily at the thought of so many humans staring. Drag Strip saw that and sneered.

"What a wimp," he said to the clearing in general. "Just because you're scared…"

Breakdown transformed as well, determined to ignore him. He was more or less used to Drag Strip's snippy, spoiling-for-a-fight attitude, though he had never understood it. _If _I_ were the smallest of the team, I wouldn't draw any extra attention to myself._

He looked around, feeling uneasy. The matter-energy converter stood in the center of the clearing on a raised platform. It gleamed even though a fine coating of dust, all levers and darkened indicators and still dials, but no one else was there. Breakdown opened a comm line at once.

"Dead End," he said, "who's supposed to be guarding this?" Were they hiding somewhere, watching him?

"Swindle, Vortex and Brawl," Dead End replied. "Why, have they abandoned their posts or did the Autobots kill them? Or both?"

In the distance Breakdown heard gunfire and a furious roar that sounded like Brawl on a rampage. "I think they're enraging the 'bots."

"I think you may have meant 'engaging', but that works as well," Dead End murmured. "We'll be there in a minute."

Drag Strip had been listening to the exchange with his arms folded and a stormy look on his faceplate, but he started again as soon as Breakdown ended the transmission. "I'm not asking you to do anything difficult. Just to help me enter a race-"

"You don't think it's difficult to come up with an entirely new identity and history for you, and fake every record which backs that up?" Breakdown felt as though he had finally had enough. "And that's _before_ hacking into the network? And that's assuming none of the humans get auspicious about why they never heard of you? If it's not that difficult, you do it!"

He punctuated that closing remark with a shove to Drag Strip's chest just beside the engine block. Ordinarily the most that would have done would have been to send Drag Strip stumbling back a step, but Drag Strip was standing on a loose rock at the moment. The push sent him off-balance, the stone turned under his foot and he fell flat on his aft just as Dead End and Wildrider drove into the clearing.

He leaped up, optics burning, and transformed. Breakdown reverted to alt-mode almost as fast, and Wildrider's excited call of, "Are you guys playing a game?" was nearly drowned out by the snarl of Drag Strip's engine. Breakdown threw his transmission into reverse and hit his accelerator just as Drag Strip all but leaped forward at him.

A contest of speed between him and Drag Strip wouldn't have been much of a fight, so Breakdown smashed his accelerator flat and raced backwards to where Dead End and Wildrider had braked to a halt. Drag Strip zoomed after him, engine revving hard.

Breakdown flicked his forcefield off and threw all his weight sideways. He flipped on to two tires and drove almost edgewise between Dead End and Wildrider, allowing himself to thump back on to all four wheels once he was past them. Behind him, he heard a harsh electric crackle as Drag Strip's forcefield impacted almost solidly onto both of theirs, and even though each of them weighed far more than the racecar did, they rocked back from the momentum.

Wildrider was the first to recover, and let out a whoop. "That was awesome, Breaky! Can I play too?"

"Stay the frag out of this!" Drag Strip snapped, reversing.

"Sheesh! _Fine,_ Motormaster. I'll go see if that thing's made any energon yet." Wildrider transformed and hopped up on to the platform, poking curiously at the matter-energy converter.

"Wildrider…" Dead End began warningly, just as the converter's activation lights glowed like beacons. The device let out a deep _thrummm._ Startled, Breakdown glanced at it… and nearly missed Drag Strip's furious charge straight at him, so fast that all he registered was a yellow flash heading straight at him like a missile.

He squeaked and activated his forcefield just in time. Drag Strip rammed into him, jolting him back several feet. His forcefield flickered from the crash. Then Drag Strip backed up again, clearly intending to repeat the maneuver.

Suddenly Breakdown was angry too. He revved his own engine in the sharp debilitating vibrations that could sabotage any mechanical device in the vicinity, and raced ahead at Drag Strip, who flung his own transmission into reverse and fled around the platform. Wildrider had produced an empty cube and was holding that under the converter, which hummed even more loudly.

"Breakdown, stop!" Dead End shouted, but it was already too late. Breakdown shot around the platform in the other direction, engine howling. Drag Strip froze with an inarticulate yell as his systems stuttered.

So did the converter. There was a sharp _crack_ and Wildrider leaped back as the converter shook on its base. Breakdown shut his engine off in dawning horror and transformed to get a better look, though once he had seen that every needle on every dial was creeping into the red zone he backed away fast.

That was when he heard Motormaster's approach – a sound like thunder made solid. Wildrider scrambled off the platform and came to stand beside Dead End.

"We don't know anything, right?" he said rapidly. "I mean, it was like that when we got here. Right?"

The huge semi lumbered into the mouth of the clearing just as the converter let out a high-pitched electronic shriek. Then it sprayed incandescent white light over the entire clearing. Breakdown felt the light burn through his frame as though neither forcefield nor armor existed, and then everything went dark.

* * *

When Breakdown came back online, the first thing he registered was an unpleasant grittiness against his faceplate. His optics were still offline, and his systems still recovering from the aftereffects of the blast – he could tell his engine had seized up and his self-diagnostics were offline as well, since nothing showed in his HUD.

He onlined his optics, getting his arms under him as he pushed up and braced for a visual inspection of the damage. _Slagging Drag Strip. If I have to go to the repair bay and have the Constructicons staring at me, he's coming t—_

He froze. His thoughts came to a halt. The world stopped turning.

The hands splayed out on the ground before him were no longer covered with dark blue plating. They were flesh, the skin was wrinkled over the joints and there wasn't a transformation seam in sight.

He turned his head slowly. The hands were connected to the limbs that were currently propping him up, and those joined his shoulders.

Breakdown shook off the shock. _I'm halli… hallo… hallucinating._ For the first time, he couldn't even feel pleased that he had found the correct word and pronounced it properly. He offlined his optics, though even as he did so he noticed that his vision didn't dim out and go to black as it usually did – instead it went straight from seeing to not. _That's just damage. Just wait a few moments and online them again and everything will be back to normal._

Someone moved at the entrance to the clearing. Someone else groaned softly, far to his right. The matter-energy converter was ominously silent, as was his radio. Breakdown refused to consider the implications of either. Getting his processors and visual system back in working order was his first priority.

He onlined his optics again.

The hands had not changed, except that now the pale slivers at the tips of each digit – _the fingernails,_ he thought dimly – were digging deep into the sand, into the tire-tracks that he had left there. The hands felt proportional to him, but he had never seen grains of sand so large.

 _But it's not that_ they're _large, is it?_ he thought with a sickening dread.

He couldn't look, and yet he had no other choice. The hands pushed up and the rest of his body folded, knees bending as his torso became upright. And it did so without any of the sounds Breakdown took for granted – the soft clank of metallic plates and limb components, the easy slide of joints in oiled sockets, the whisper-hum of Cybertronian systems and the whir of internal fans. All he heard was the rasp of rapid ventilations as he looked down at himself.

Sand still clung to the human form that he saw. The chest rose and fell with his breathing, in a way that his undercarriage would never have done. He couldn't see his engine or transmission or tires anywhere.

 _No,_ he thought. _No, please, no. This has to be a trick of some kind. A hologram maybe._ He poked the side of his thigh.

The limb was unpleasantly solid and warm and… and covered with _hair._ Breakdown snatched his hand away and flailed it desperately, as he would have shaken off cyber-leeches on his plating. Maybe if he just did that hard enough the flesh would fall off like a glove to reveal cobalt-blue metal beneath.

The hand remained at the end of his arm, flopping like a starfish.

 _Not a hologram._ Breakdown wanted to dig a hole in the ground and disappear into it, forever.

That was when it occurred to him to wonder what had happened to his teammates, and he raised his head. The sight was a worse shock than his own sudden change. Nearest to the matter-energy converter, which seemed to have tripled in size, another human form lay on the ground. It propped itself up on its elbows and shook its head in a sharp, pull-yourself-together movement. The helm was gone, replaced by a covering of pale organic fiber.

As if it was all happening from a great distance, Breakdown saw his hand lift to touch his own head. He felt hair and dropped his hand at once.

Two more humans stood a few yards away, to the right. One stared down at its hands, then turned them over slowly and repeated the inspection. The other looked all over itself, craning its neck to see its back and touching everything in sight, including the dark reddish hair that covered its head and sprouted between its legs.

Breakdown looked away, feeling nauseated. He'd seen plenty of humans before, but rarely if ever without their clothes on. And it was vaguely repulsive how featureless human bodies were except for two tiny knobs on the chestplate, a set of bulging ridges leading down to a shallow port of some kind in the abdominal area, and some limp, unidentifiable kibble dangling below.

He wanted his own pelvic unit back, with its smooth warm plating painted a pristine white. But that was gone along with the bright distinctive colors of his teammates, replaced by dull monochromatic schemes in varying shades of beige. He didn't need to touch his own back to know that his hood and roof and spoiler had disappeared as well.

He wondered how he would ever see what was behind him again, without a rear-view mirror.

Someone grunted with effort. Breakdown glanced at the opening of the clearing. The human who stood there was taller than the others and broader too, with hair so dark that it seemed to absorb all the sun that fell on it, reflecting none of the light. One of the human's large hands was held just before its chest, and the fingers opened and closed repeatedly.

 _He's trying to draw a weapon from subspace,_ Breakdown thought. The hand stayed empty.

Then the human looked up from the useless attempt and stared at him with violet eyes the color of Motormaster's optics.

Breakdown scrambled up as he would have done reflexively if Motormaster had glared at him, preparing to run or dodge a blow. But once he had done that, he couldn't move. _Where would I go? What am I going to do now?_ He felt sand under the bare thrusterless soles of his feet. A drop of liquid the same temperature as his plating – _no, skin_ – trickled down his back strut, even though he knew it wasn't raining.

The last human, the one with the blond hair, was on his feet as well by then, but no one said anything. Breakdown couldn't have made a sound in any case, not even to scream in horror. His vocalizer had locked up so much that it seemed to fill his throat and just breathing was enough of an effort. _And it can't be real if we don't mention it,_ he thought in desperation. He clenched his fists and stared at the cliff face just behind the converter.

"Slag," said a voice with Wildrider's distinct Texan accent, and Breakdown's gaze went to the red-haired man as if drawn by a magnet. "How weird _is_ this, guys? We're all human!"


	2. Where the Rubber Meets the Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 already! This time Dead End gets to voice his oh-so-cheery opinion of the situation, so expect much doom and gloom as tensions start to rise.

**Chapter 2 : Where the Rubber Meets the Road**

They were doomed.

Dead End suspected when he awoke from recharge that morning that today would be a bad day. He tended to think that about every day since he'd first onlined in front of Vector Sigma, but never before had his dire predictions fallen so utterly short of reality. The horror of their current situation was so far beyond anything he could have imagined that any prior prognostications seemed downright optimistic by comparison.

That fact that Megatron's machine had been destroyed by his gestaltmates' idiocy came as no surprise. The fact that his efforts to stop them had gone ignored was likewise predictable.

What _hadn't_ been predictable was what had happened next.

"How weird _is_ this, guys? We're all human!"

As one they turned to look at the human who'd spoken with Wildrider's voice – _but not really his voice,_ Dead End mused – the accent was recognizable, but the sound of it was somehow _wrong_ – and then to the one that had Motormaster's violet optics – _eyes,_ he corrected himself, _they're called eyes_ – their gazes questioning.

Motormaster – and it _was_ Motormaster, flesh wrapper aside, just as he was Dead End and Wildrider was Wildrider and the humans with hair that shone blue-black and gold in the bright desert sunlight were Breakdown and Drag Strip – stared back at them and opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a violent tremor that shook the ground beneath their feet.

It was an impact tremor, and many others followed it in rapid succession, creating a continuous series of vibrations not unlike the seaquakes that occasionally shook the _Nemesis_ , except _this_ quake was coming closer, approaching them with alarming speed. The Combaticons who'd been originally charged with guarding Megatron's matter-energy converter – Swindle, Vortex and Brawl – were returning.

Motormaster finally found his voice. " _Run!_ " he commanded.

They ran.

"Why are we running?" Wildrider asked, turning his head to look at Motormaster as he spoke and tripping over a clump of creosote in the process that sent him sprawling. He was back on his feet again almost immediately, pounding after them in an effort to catch up.

Motormaster didn't slacken his pace. "Because if Vortex and Brawl catch us like this, they'll take us apart."

"Assuming they don't just step on us," Dead End chimed in. "Either way, we're doomed."

"I notice you're still running with the rest of us," Motormaster snarled pointedly.

Dead End scowled but didn't bother to reply. He could feel the fragile flesh on the soles of his feet searing and tearing with every stride, and that was more than distracting enough. They were approaching the nearest of the tall cliffs surrounding the clearing; the sheer rock face loomed up in front of them, at least three times larger than it had been when they entered, pockmarked with cracks and holes shrouded in shadow that had seemed like pinholes before but now yawned impossibly wide. They made their way for them instinctively, seeking cover.

* * *

Finding a shallow cave big enough to shelter the five of them but small enough that the now-much-larger Combaticons wouldn't bother to investigate it was surprisingly easy, and getting out of the blazing midday sun was an added bonus, but apart from that Dead End saw little about their situation to celebrate.

Motormaster turned away from the entrance where he'd been scanning the horizon for signs of pursuit to face the other members of his gestalt, crouched on the cave floor panting and dripping some strange, greasy fluid. "All right," he said, glaring murderously at each of them in turn. "What the frag happened?"

They exchanged nervous glances.

"It was Breakdown!" Drag Strip said.

"It was Drag Strip!" Breakdown said in the same moment.

"It was the Autobots!" Wildrider crowed over them both.

Motormaster's human face was flushed a muddy red from their sprint across the clearing, but it got even redder as he lunged at Wildrider, seizing him by the throat and hauling him clear off the ground. Wildrider made a choking sound as he was hoisted aloft, his hands scrabbling futilely at Motormaster's wrist, his dangling legs kicking helplessly.

Dead End noted idly just how _large_ their gestalt leader was compared to the rest of them, even in their new, far more vulnerable forms. He towered over them, almost as wide as two of them standing side by side, his bulging arm bigger around than Wildrider's neck now trapped in his savage grip.

That and the violence were at least familiar. Less familiar was the look on Wildrider's face as it swiftly darkened to purple, his eyes widening in panic as he clawed and kicked with increasing desperation.

Motormaster frowned, dropping him abruptly. "What?" he demanded.

Wildrider's only response was a truly revolting noise somewhere between a gag and a gasp. For a long moment his harsh, rasping breaths were the only sound in the small cave, echoing hollowly off the rock walls.

Motormaster stared at him for long moment before turning his glare on the others. "One of you did this," he growled. "Now start talking or I start punching."

"It was Breakdown's fault," Drag Strip replied immediately.

"It was _Drag Strip's_ fault," Breakdown retorted, glaring at him.

Motormaster backhanded them both and looked to him, ignoring their cries of protest. "Well?"

Dead End sighed. " _They_ got in a fight. _He_ activated Megatron's machine, and _he_ broke it," he replied, identifying each perpetrator in turn with a sullen jerk of his chin.

"And what were _you_ doing during all of this?"

He offlined his optics in disgust. He'd seen _that_ one coming a mile away. "Musing on the futility of my existence," he replied sarcastically.

Predictably, Motormaster backhanded him as well.

Afterward he turned back to the cave entrance to stare out over the dry desert landscape, his unfamiliar features shaping themselves into an uncharacteristic expression of deep thought. They left him to it, opting to remain silent and nurse their injuries.

Dead End stared at his feet – bizarre appendages by anyone's standards, more like grossly deformed hands than anything fit to walk on – noting with disdain the abundance of reddened scrapes and leaking cuts he'd acquired in their flight from the clearing. Human durability left a lot to be desired.

He glanced up at the others, taking in their new, vastly altered forms. That one was Breakdown, huddled close to Drag Strip despite their recent dispute, and over there was Wildrider –

 _Wait a minute,_ he thought. _Why are they all darker than me?_

"Right," Motormaster said, breaking into his thoughts. "We'll stay here for now. It's probably only temporary. We'll just wait until it wears off."

"What if it doesn't?" Breakdown asked.

"Then we're doomed," Dead End replied.

* * *

He was hideous.

There was no use in denying it. The evidence was right there in front of him. Gone were his shoulder wheels and chestplate. His mask and visor were nothing but a memory. He was tiny and lumpy and squashy and there was nothing he could do about it. It was probably a mercy that his lifespan was now pathetically short.

"My polish is gone," he remarked to no one in particular, breaking the prolonged silence.

"What?" Wildrider asked, lifting his head from where he'd been resting it against Dead End's shoulder – his squishy, wheel-less shoulder – and pushing himself into a more upright position. Over the course of their long silent vigil they'd all gravitated into a sort of huddle, although Dead End couldn't recall making a conscious decision to move closer to the others. Only Motormaster remained apart from them, standing alone at the entrance to the cave.

"I had a new can of polish in my subspace," he said. "It's gone."

"Who cares about polish?" Drag Strip said, sitting up to sneer at him. "Have you noticed we don't have any energon?"

"You do realize if we did and we drank it, we'd all die?" he replied darkly. He scowled, staring down at his ugly, fleshy hands. "Humans don't drink energon."

He was fairly certain they were all dying anyway. He hurt everywhere, not just the agony of the cuts and scrapes on his feet or the knot on his jaw where Motormaster had hit him; there was also a dull ache in his midsection – _where my transmission used to be,_ he thought glumly – and a painful throbbing in his head like someone had been using it to pound out dents. His mouth was unpleasantly dry, and he felt as if his core temperature had dropped at least five degrees since they'd entered the cave.

"How long has it been?" Breakdown asked suddenly.

"We don't have internal chronometers," he replied morosely.

"Yes, but it's been a while, hasn't it?" Breakdown said, looking over at Motormaster. "It's been a while, and we're still human."

"Of course we are," Dead End said. "Megatron was planning to use that machine to make energon. What good would it do him if the effects _wore off_ after a few hours?"

Motormaster turned slowly to look at him. So did all the others.

"I told you we were doomed," he said.

Breakdown turned back to Motormaster. "So what do we do now?"

"We could use the machine to turn ourselves back," Drag Strip suggested. "Just wait until the Combaticons leave, and then sneak out and – and fix it, somehow. Change back to normal."

Motormaster frowned, turning back to stare out into the clearing again. He stood stiffly, his feet set slightly apart, his broad shoulders vibrating with tension, silhouetted by the watery orange light of the setting sun.

"Are they still out there?" Drag Strip demanded impatiently.

"Yeah," Motormaster replied tightly. "They're dismantling the machine."

"Oh," Drag Strip said in a small voice.

For a long time, no one spoke. Outside, the Combaticons finished gathering the individual components that made up Megatron's matter-energy converter and departed, taking with them their last shred of hope.

A curious rumbling, gurgling sound punctuated the tense silence. Dead End, Wildrider and Breakdown all turned to look at Drag Strip, the apparent source of the noise.

"Quit revving your engine, Drag Strip," Motormaster ordered absently. "I'm trying to think."

"He doesn't have an engine," Dead End muttered.

"We need to contact Megatron," Motormaster said finally.

"We don't have comms," Dead End said.

"I know we don't have comms!" Motormaster snapped, whirling around to glare at him. "And you should be grateful I don't have my slagging _rifle_ either. Breakdown, could you do it with a human computer?"

Breakdown sat up a little straighter as he was addressed, frowning thoughtfully. "I don't know," he said. "Maybe. But where are we going to get one?"

"We'll go to a human settlement," Motormaster replied. "One of their cities. They'll have one."

"We'll need clothes," Breakdown ventured hesitantly. "Humans always wear clothes. If we don't have any, they'll all stare at us."

"We need food, too," Wildrider chimed in. "Humans refuel by eating food."

"So we'll get some," Motormaster said.

"We don't have any money," Dead End pointed out. "They're not going to give us all that slag for nothing."

"Who said anything about giving it to us?" Motormaster growled, his hands clenching into fists. "We'll just _take_ it."

"And how exactly are we going to get there?" Dead End retorted. "We don't have alt modes."

Motormaster lunged at him with a speed that was downright startling, seizing him by the shoulders and hauling him to his feet, his human features contorting with ill-suppressed rage. "Shut up!" he shouted, his flushed face scant inches from Dead End's. "Stop telling us what we don't fragging _have_ and start thinking about how we're going to get _out_ of this!"

"We're not _going_ to get out of this!" he screamed back, his vocalizer cracking. "We are _slagged!_ We are ugly, squishy, _useless_ organics and we are ALL. GOING. TO _DIE!_ "

Motormaster snarled, shoving him violently away. Dead End stumbled backward, barely managing to catch himself against the cave wall before he fell. He leaned heavily against it, venting hard. His skin felt hot and tight, his chest painfully compressed; he couldn't seem to get enough air. His dry throat ached.

A lengthy silence stretched out between them, filled with the oppressive weight of their stares and punctuated by his own labored breathing. After a moment Motormaster snorted derisively, turning his back on him and stalking back to the cave entrance to look outside again.

"I'd kinda like to have some more fun before I die," Wildrider said wistfully. "I always wanted to see Disneyland."

"I wanted to win the Formula One World Championship," Drag Strip volunteered, not wanting to be outdone.

Breakdown glanced between them, then turned his gaze back to Motormaster. "What are we gonna do?" he asked quietly.

"We'll walk," Motormaster replied with grim resolve. "The road's not far; we'll go there. We'll get a car, find a city. Anyone who's got a problem with that can make the trip on his hands and knees."

"Can we get a car each?" Drag Strip asked hopefully. "I want the fastest one."

Motormaster huffed in exasperation. "We'll get _one_ car and you can have the whole fragging trunk all to yourself, how's that?"

* * *

Venturing from the temporary shelter of the cave they had hidden in was strangely daunting. The sun had set, and the sky was darkening rapidly. When Dead End stepped out into the gathering gloom of the desert twilight, he immediately attempted to switch his vision to the infrared spectrum, only to be reminded that he no longer _had_ infrared, or optics for that matter. The realization made him want to fall to his knees and never move again.

But the others kept going, picking their way carefully over the uneven rocky ground, their progress punctuated by the occasional curse or grunt of pain as they attempted to navigate back across the clearing in the steadily growing darkness. He had no choice but to follow.

 _I don't deserve this,_ he thought. _I don't slagging deserve this._

By the time he slammed his foot into an unseen rock for the third or fourth time, he'd stopped noticing the pain. Pain had become his entire existence, implacable, inescapable.

 _I tried to stop them,_ he thought bitterly, veering slightly from his chosen course to avoid a dark, spiky clump of unidentifiable plant life. _No one ever listens to me._

The others were walking slightly apart from him, just far enough that their quiet murmurs were beyond his audial range, their voices indistinct. Motormaster was even further afield, walking alone several strides ahead of them, his broad form barely discernible in the dark.

Dead End stumbled again, this time falling painfully to his knees, and for a moment he debated not bothering to rise. He placed a hand flat on the ground to brace himself, and blinked when he realized he'd put his palm directly in the center of a tire tread mark – _their_ tread marks – his eyes beset by an odd stinging sensation as he pushed himself upright.

The gnawing ache in his midsection had dulled, but the pounding in his head seemed to grow worse with every step he took, further compounding his misery. His gyros, or whatever it was humans had that passed for gyros, had begun to malfunction; he felt incredibly dizzy. Slow, agonizing death seemed inevitable.

He was so caught up in his litany of despair that he didn't realize the others had stopped until he bumped into Wildrider's back. He looked up to find them staring out over a broad expanse of inky asphalt – the highway they'd drove in on.

There wasn't a single car in sight.


	3. Playing in Traffic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3, and Drag Strip finally gets his turn behind the wheel... or lack thereof. Buckle up and brace yourselves anyway, because no one does it better or faster.

**Chapter 3 : Playing in Traffic**

In all his life, Drag Strip had never hated anything as much as his new, soft and useless human body.

At first it hadn't seemed quite real. Everything had happened so quickly that even his superior reflexes had been hard-pressed to keep up. In a matter of minutes, it had gone from the fight to the device searing him with a painless blast to their sudden relocation to a cave where yesterday his arm just might have fitted had he been in root mode. It was a little difficult to take in all at once.

And as the sky darkened, his sense of unreality only increased. Even the world was different without sensors and headlights – it was a large, dark and above all _alien_ place. Drag Strip would not have been greatly surprised if Megatron or Primus had appeared out of the darkness and said to him, "Excellent, Drag Strip, you have passed this bizarre and arbitrary test I set for you! Now you shall have your powerful and beautiful chassis back, with the following upgrades as a well-deserved reward—"

He was distracted enough by the fantasy that he tripped over an unseen rock and fell headlong.

That _hurt_ , even though he had the fortitude not to bleat like an Autobot about it. Before that afternoon, Drag Strip had never given much thought to human bodies except to note with distaste that striking them left nasty reddish smears on his sleek plating and tires. Now he began to wonder how the species as a whole had ever managed to survive so long.

 _You'd think they'd have_ something _to compensate for their lack of size, lack of weaponry, lack of speed, lack of fragging everything,_ he thought. _But no._ Worst of all were the injuries he had taken – and seemed to be continuing to take with every step. The soles of his feet stung and throbbed, even though it was dark and the sand was no longer unbearably hot. Each fall scraped his hands and knees raw, and the side of his face ached where Motormaster had hit him, even though that had happened hours ago.

But at least he knew the causes of that damage. There were other problems that unsettled him far more because he had no idea what was wrong with him. His now-soft organic plating was covered with tiny bumps, and the internal components in his midsection rumbled occasionally, though the sound was nothing like the reassuring rev of the high-performance engine he had lost. Out of long habit he willed a damage report to appear in his vision, only to remember that he no longer had self-diagnostics or a HUD.

_Do humans even have self-repair systems?_

He decided to worry about that later and kept walking, following Motormaster's huge figure as best he could in the dark. Motormaster, he soon realized, strode in human mode much as he would have done in root mode – ignoring everything in his way and apparently indifferent to the thorny shrubs that raked Drag Strip's legs until they leaked. He hated the warm sticky fluid dribbling down his skin too.

The access road sloped up to the highway. Drag Strip remembered plunging easily down that slope, feeling the wind flow like water over his smooth aerodynamic frame, his tires eating miles of asphalt in seconds. But as he plodded up the rise, legs trembling, the memory felt like an old data cache or something that had happened to another mech. They stopped on the hard shoulder and Dead End walked straight into Wildrider.

That would have been funny under any other circumstances, but now it was all Drag Strip could do to breathe deeply, press his fingers to a new sharp pain in his side and look out over the expanse of the highway. Even in the weak watery glow of the single streetlight closest to them, he could see there wasn't a single car in sight.

"Now what?" he said.

He knew at once that he should not have drawn any attention to himself, but it was too late. There was a soft rasping sound as Motormaster turned on his heel.

"Now," he said, "you get out there on the road. When you see a car, step in front of it and make it stop. Then I'll get the jump on the driver."

Drag Strip's throat was so dry he could barely swallow, but it closed up entirely at Motormaster's words. He had to work his mouth a few times before he could reply.

"Uh…" he began. "What if the car doesn't stop in time?"

"Then you'll be run over," Dead End said, apparently condescending to end his sulk. "I've heard that can be an astonishingly painful experience."

"Can be?"

"If the impact doesn't kill you instantly."

Motormaster's chuckle was contemptuous. "And then I guess you won't have been the fastest after all."

Resentment and pride shot like fresh fuel through Drag Strip's limbs, stiffening his back strut. When headlights shone in the distance, he took a step forward but froze as the vehicle came closer and he recognized it.

It was a huge semi-trailer truck. Drag Strip felt his legs move of their own accord as he backpedaled. He would have thought twice about standing before that kind of vehicle in his former frame, let alone in a tiny and infinitely vulnerable human envelope. The semi rumbled past them on its multiple wheels.

Drag Strip glanced nervously at Motormaster to see if he was in trouble for not trying to stop the semi, but Motormaster didn't even look at him; all his attention was fixed on the semi. In the pale edge of the glow cast by its headlights, his face was expressionless except for the hunger in his eyes.

The semi was well past them when its horn blared, making Drag Strip flinch. Motormaster didn't move. He stood by the side of the road until the last red spark of the semi's taillights had disappeared into the night, and then he turned and shoved Drag Strip into the highway in one smooth motion.

Drag Strip stumbled and nearly fell, but caught himself. Any pleasure he might have felt at his usual reflexes still being in evidence faded when his teammates started calling out suggestions to him.

"Maybe you should hold your hands up when the next car sees you," Breakdown said.

Motormaster grunted in assent. "Yeah, try to look pathetic and defenseless. More so than usual."

"What about lying down?" Wildrider said. "Playing dead?"

Motormaster cuffed him on the back of the head. "Playing speed bump is more like it. If they don't see him in time they'll go right over him and then it'll be your turn as the bait."

Drag Strip could hardly believe his audials. That morning he had been a bolt of golden lightning, the terror of the roads and the pride of Megatron's army. And now he was practically roadkill.

The asphalt felt rough under the soles of his feet and his skin was leaking again from beneath the arms. He didn't even have any idea how long he stood there waiting, but it felt like a year before pinpoint lights appeared in the distance. They grew steadily larger as a car approached.

Drag Strip tried to let his shoulders slump as he raised his hands. They felt very empty. His gravito-gun was long gone, but at that moment he would have been happy with a large rock or two. His only consolation was that there were no flashing strobe lights in sight, so at least it wasn't a police car.

The headlights were bright and his eyes tried to close involuntarily as the car drew closer, but he forced them open and blinked his vision clear as he heard the car's brakes being applied. The familiar scent of hot rubber and gasoline fumes made something wrench in his chest as the car came to a halt only a few feet away from him. He still couldn't see much beyond the brilliant glow of the headlights.

But he heard a window being rolled down.

"Uh… hey, are you okay?" a man's hesitant voice called. "You want me to call 911 for—"

The words were cut off in a strangled squawk and a muffled scream. Drag Strip immediately scrambled sideways in case the car shot forward at him, and in the next moment he was outside the headlights' glare and could see what had happened. Motormaster had thrust a massive arm past the lowered window and seemed to be doing to the human driver what he had done to Wildrider in the cave, with much the same result. Then he shoved his other arm into the car as well and closed his fist around the human's wrist, tearing the man's hand away from the steering wheel.

The other door was thrown open. Another human leaped out and ran around the car, shoes clack-clacking on the asphalt. Drag Strip lunged for the still-open door and flung himself into the front seat, pulling his legs in quickly.

A sharp pain drove through his groin into his midsection and he gasped, doubling up. His thighs splayed apart as if from reflex and the sensation slowly faded to a sick throbbing, though he was still afraid to move. Fresh drops of liquid trickled down the sides of his face.

Motormaster was snarling something at the human in the driver's seat as the other one reached him, but Drag Strip had more pressing concerns at hand. He reached between his legs tentatively, expecting to feel nails or broken glass on the car seat, but all he registered were the strange external components that grew from his pelvic unit. They were even more unpleasantly lumpy and squashy than the rest of him, and produced a warning twinge or two as he handled them.

The other human produced a small aerosol can and sprayed it at Motormaster's head as if about to give him a polish. Drag Strip had an instant to wonder what that was about. Then Motormaster's bellow split the night, though he still didn't let go of the driver, who was now choking in earnest.

Drag Strip rested his forehead against the dashboard and tried to relax. He still felt slightly sore, but it was good to be sitting down with his feet off the sand and stones and asphalt. When he heard another car door click open he turned his head and saw the now-released driver scrambling out.

Mildly curious, Drag Strip shifted sideways in a crablike motion, trying not to remember how gracefully his robot form would have moved, like a living work of art. He was very careful to keep the kibble away from the gearshift, though, and in a moment he had lowered himself into the driver's seat. It felt warm. Even better was the sense of being in-control, behind the wheel.

He glanced around the interior of the car – _Honda Accord sedan, 4-speed automatic, could have a more optic-catching paintjob but it'll do_ – before he looked with growing interest at the little scenario out on the road.

Breakdown and Wildrider were holding the second human, the one who had sprayed Motormaster. Each of them gripped an arm, but the human still struggled and shrieked. Drag Strip wasn't good at recognizing anything about humans based on their appearances, because they changed the color of their clothes so frequently and they all had such small indistinct features. Voices were a little easier to distinguish, though, so he felt sure that the one whom Breakdown and Wildrider held was a female. Dead End was trying to unbutton her blouse, but that only made her yell more loudly.

Coughing and clutching his throat, the driver staggered towards them. Motormaster was half-leaning against the car, one hand clamped to his face, but he swung the other out in a swat that sent the driver sprawling. For the first time since the whole horrible experience had begun, Drag Strip started to enjoy himself. It was quite nice sitting in the comfort of the car in the perfect position to watch everything.

"Leave him alone!" the female screamed. She kicked out at Dead End, who jumped back just in time. That drew Drag Strip's attention to her feet, and to the shoes she wore.

He sat up sharply, staring at the heels on the shoes. With those on, he would be as tall as Motormaster, maybe even taller! And it only made sense that the Stunticon who had once had the largest ankle-wheels should have the largest heels.

"Hurry up with the clothes!" Motormaster growled. The driver pulled himself up, holding on to the car for support.

"I want her shoes," Drag Strip called out. He braced his forearms on the steering wheel and rested his cheek on them. "Don't damage the heels."

The driver spoke between gasps for breath. "What kind of sick…" He stopped when Motormaster looked at him. "Look, we'll give you whatever you want. Just don't touch my wife. Please."

Motormaster snorted with contempt. "Weaklings," he said to the world in general before staring back at the driver. "Tell her to shut up and give us her clothes and I won't…" he punctuated that by bending the car's radio antenna down with one finger until the tip touched the hood. " _…touch_ her."

He released the antenna with a loud _twanggg._ Even the woman had stopped yelling by then.

"Her clothes?" The driver coughed. "You – you want clothes?"

"Yeah. Yours too. And money."

"And her shoes," Drag Strip reminded him.

"Shut up about the slagging shoes already!"

"We have a s-suitcase in the trunk." The driver reached into a pocket and took out a wallet. "There's clothes in it, lots of clothes, enough for all of you. Just take those." He handed over his wallet at arm's length, nearly dropping it before Motormaster grabbed it with his free hand.

Drag Strip popped the lever that opened the trunk and Dead End fished out the suitcase, lugging it into the back seat before he got in as well and opened it. He looked down at the piles of folded clothes with no discernible change in expression, picking an occasional item up between thumb and forefinger.

"Well?" Motormaster looked up from his inspection of the wallet.

"Yes, this contains the accoutrements of human civilization."

Motormaster threw the wallet into the car, narrowly missing Dead End's head. "All right. Get in, you lot." He pulled open the door on the driver's side.

Drag Strip scrambled back to the other front seat and Motormaster took his place behind the wheel. One of his eyes was reddened and leaking, probably where the woman's aerosol spray had caught him. Drag Strip was impressed. He made a mental note to find out what the aerosol can had contained, and to get one of those for himself as well.

Wildrider and Breakdown released the woman and climbed into the back seat with her shoes just as Motormaster turned the key in the ignition. Doors slammed as the Accord's engine grumbled into life. Drag Strip settled down in his seat, feeling better at once.

Naturally, Motormaster had to ruin that. "And what the frag did you think _you_ were doing?" He slammed one bare heel down on the accelerator and the car took off in a shriek of rubber on asphalt. "Sitting pretty in here while the rest of us were trying to get clothes?"

"I did my part!" Drag Strip was beginning to rethink his decision to ride shotgun, mostly because it placed him closest to Motormaster's fists. "I was the bait, remember? _And_ I got injured doing that."

Motormaster reached up and switched on the internal light on the car's roof. Still driving at what – for them – was a sedate hundred and twenty miles an hour, he looked Drag Strip over and snorted in disdain.

"Quit whining," he said. "You aren't leaking anywhere new."

"I'm not whining! I did get hurt."

Motormaster's eyes narrowed to violet slivers. "Yeah? Where?"

Drag Strip patted his pelvic unit very lightly with the palm of one hand.

"What, there?" Motormaster said and poked the kibble.

Drag Strip doubled over again.


	4. Asleep at the Wheel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4! Motormaster's in the driver's seat now, and there's nothing you can do about it. Suck it up, weaklings!

**Chapter 4 : Asleep at the Wheel**

Motormaster grunted with satisfaction as he reached up to switch off the dome light and reclaimed his grip on the steering wheel. The look of nauseated agony on Drag Strip's face was highly entertaining, but the lighted interior of the car made it difficult to see the road.

"Breakdown," he heard Dead End ask behind him, "What are these bits of plastic?"

"I don't know," Breakdown replied after a brief pause. "What's _Visa_ mean?"

"Something to do with travel, I think," Dead End said. "This one says _American Express_ – some kind of train, perhaps?"

"You mean like Astrotrain?" Wildrider asked.

"A _human_ train," Dead End replied disdainfully "These must be access passes to human transportation. That could be useful."

"Why?" Wildrider said. "We already have a car!"

 _This is only temporary,_ Motormaster thought. It had seemed bad at first, but now things were looking up. They had a car, clothes, and money. Soon they'd have a computer too, and then they could contact Megatron and get their bodies back. Everything was going according to plan.

That was something of a miracle, considering his team was a pack of irredeemable glitches. He might have guessed they'd find some way to screw up the mission Megatron had assigned them, but this time they'd truly outdone themselves.

A low growl rose from his vocalizer at the thought, and for a moment he considered pulling the car over and doling out a proper punishment.

 _Humans._ They were slagging _humans._

The car swerved slightly as his grip on the steering wheel tightened. At first he'd been convinced that it was all some kind of Autobot trick. A hologram, an illusion, _something_ that had caused his optics to deceive him. But then he'd tried to draw his sword from subspace to deal with the slagger who'd dared to try and mess with them, and it hadn't come.

There'd been a moment of absolute denial, of total refusal to accept what was happening. And then the ground had begun to shake.

"I want my shoes," Drag Strip said in a strained voice, still doubled over in his seat. Motormaster smirked when a second later the human female's shoes came flying through the space between the front seats and landed with a clunk on the dashboard in front of Drag Strip.

Drag Strip seemed far less amused. Ignoring the other Stunticons' laughter, he straightened up and reached out to grab the coveted footwear, muttering resentfully as he gathered them close to his naked chestplate.

Motormaster chuckled darkly. Things were definitely looking up.

"Human clothes are weird." Breakdown's voice drifted up from the backseat.

"Seems simple enough to me," Dead End replied. "Ones like this go on the bottom, and this kind goes on top."

"I want that one," Wildrider said. "I like hard rock."

"Oooh, this one's soft," Breakdown said. "Feels like a polishing cloth."

"Give it here," Dead End said.

Drag Strip turned around in his seat, rising up onto his knees to peer into the back. "Are there any yellow ones? I want the yellow ones."

A scrap of white cloth with bright yellow blotches on it fluttered into the front seat, and Drag Strip seized it triumphantly, turning forward again to shove his arms into the flopping, ruffled sleeves.

"Ah," Dead End said, sounding uncharacteristically pleased. "Humans have visors, too."

Drag Strip was up on his knees again immediately, reaching into the backseat. "Give it to me, I want it."

"Get your own," Dead End replied smugly. "This one is mine."

Drag Strip opened his mouth to protest, but Motormaster cut him off before he could speak. "Sit down and shut up, Drag Strip. That goes for the rest of you as well."

They all knew better than to argue when Motormaster used _that_ tone. Drag Strip turned around, crossing his arms over his chestplate and slouching down in his seat with a resentful huff. The others fell into a cowed silence, the human clothing momentarily forgotten in the face of Motormaster's ire.

Motormaster smirked at their reaction, seizing the opportunity to pass a slow-moving station wagon that was plodding along sluggishly ahead of them. Its headlights dwindled rapidly in the rearview mirror, and they soon had the road to themselves once more.

A flicker of movement off to his right caught his attention. He glanced over, noting with relief that the vision out of his right optic was no longer blurred, and discovered Drag Strip poking around in the compartment below the dashboard. When he glanced back again a moment later, Drag Strip was gulping some kind of liquid out of a clear plastic container.

He reached across the gap, his hand closing around Drag Strip's wrist like a vise. Drag Strip jerked in surprise, coughing and spluttering, a flicker of fear flashing through his optics as he met Motormaster's narrowed gaze.

"What is that?" he demanded.

"It's _water,_ " Drag Strip replied, eyeing him warily. "You know, like we put in our radiators."

Motormaster deliberated for all of a moment, then jerked his chin toward the backseat and released Drag Strip's wrist, returning his hand to the wheel and his optics to the road. Hunching his shoulders defensively, Drag Strip passed the container through the gap to Breakdown and the others.

After a few minutes Motormaster raised his left hand, and the container – now nearly empty – was slipped into it. He checked his mirrors and pulled over, deftly maneuvering the car onto the shoulder with one hand while he raised the container to his mouth with the other and drained it.

The liquid was warm like energon, but thin and tasteless. Nevertheless it felt good on his parched throat. Setting the handbrake, he opened the car door and tossed out the empty container. "Let's see what we've got," he said, heaving himself out of the driver's seat.

A series of rapid clunks announced the opening of the other doors as the rest of the Stunticons piled out of the car. They gathered around him as he took the suitcase from Dead End and moved around to the back, laying it out on the trunk and thumbing open the latches.

He turned to face them then, looking them over appraisingly. Dead End's optics were now hidden behind a pair of dark lenses – a poor substitute for his usual visor – and his lower half was clad in a loose-fitting garment patterned with a series of criss-crossing lines. Instead of a Decepticon insignia, Wildrider now had the words _Hard Rock Café_ emblazoned across his chestplate.

Scowling, Motormaster returned his attention to the suitcase. From Megatron's elite warriors to _this_. He rifled through the contents, inspecting each item briefly and rejecting any that were clearly too small to fit him, passing them on to the others to complete their disguises.

Regrettably, that accounted for most of the contents of the suitcase; he was unquestionably too large for the majority of them. He finally settled on a front-fastening upper garment that fit (albeit snugly) over his broad shoulders and a loose, flowing lower garment that stretched at the waist. It tangled around his legs when he moved, but he didn't think it would impede his ability to walk or drive.

He turned back to the others after he'd pulled them on, noting with satisfaction that they all appeared sufficiently covered, and gave a curt nod of approval. Turning back to the suitcase, he raised an arm to close the lid. The action was met with a soft tearing sound as the thin cloth stretched across his upper arm split open from shoulder to elbow. Behind him, someone stifled a snicker.

Motormaster turned to face them with slow deliberation, pinning them all with a baleful glare. Once he was certain he had their attention, he reached up and ripped away what remained of the garment's arms, leaving his own bare from shoulder to wrist.

"All right," he said into the sudden silence. "Let's get moving."

* * *

They made good time on the largely-deserted highway, and Motormaster thought things were progressing fairly well. Soon they'd be back where they belonged.

Shortly after they got back on the road, Breakdown informed them that he'd discovered a box in the back seat. Before Motormaster could ask what was inside – a weapon, he hoped – Wildrider asked, "Is that cake? Lemme try it."

"What are you doing?" he said sharply, unable to turn around completely and not wanting to show that he had no idea what "cake" was.

Drag Strip twisted around to look. "I want some too," he said. Motormaster was fairly sure Drag Strip didn't know what cake was either, but of course he'd want to do whatever the others were doing. When Drag Strip turned back around, he was holding a chunk of some pale crumbly substance covered with a thick white paste that gave off a faint sweet odor.

 _What in Megatron's name_ is _that?_

"Hey, there's writing on it." Breakdown sounded intrigued.

"What does it say?" Dead End asked. "Hazardous? Toxic? Explosive?"

"From…this…day forth. Wildrider ate the rest."

They were going to _eat_ that? Motormaster grimaced in disgust. Even if that was what humans did to refuel, the thought of swallowing something solid made him want to purge his tanks. Drag Strip seemed to have no such compunctions, however; he eagerly raised his piece of cake to his mouth.

"Hey," Wildrider said suddenly. "I saw a Disney film once where this human ate a piece of cake and it shrank her down to about _this_ big."

Drag Strip froze, his mouth open, the cake halfway inside. "That was fragging Disney, not a documentary," he said after a moment, and popped the piece into his mouth.

Dead End offered Motormaster the remains, but he shook his head. He didn't want human food, especially not human food he had to bite and chew. In any case, it was better to keep his attention on the road.

Afterward an argument broke out when Drag Strip made another attempt to persuade Dead End to surrender the human visor he'd found, but Motormaster put a stop to that by cuffing him across the back of the helm and telling him to shut up. Now Drag Strip was staring sullenly out the window with his arms folded, and the others had lapsed into blissful silence.

But of course that couldn't last. "It's too quiet," Wildrider complained. "Turn on the radio, Drag Strip."

"Do it yourself," Drag Strip shot back irritably.

Motormaster ground his denta and reached for the knob on the dashboard, promptly flooding the car with human noise. He manipulated the dial until he found something only mildly intolerable, and tried to ignore the persistent throbbing in his head.

That bought him a measure of peace, if not quiet, and after a time even the noise from the radio seemed to fade into the background, granting Motormaster the opportunity to reassess their situation.

By now they'd likely been declared dead, or else deserters. The fact that their tire tracks could be seen entering the clearing but not leaving it would help to discourage the latter, which meant there was a good chance they'd be forgiven for damaging Megatron's machine…provided they managed to contact him and explain themselves in time.

He'd take full responsibility for his team; tell Megatron he'd administered a suitable punishment. He hadn't, not by a long shot, but then again, it could be argued that being turned into _humans_ was punishment enough.

Time was their most precious commodity now. The longer Megatron was made to wait, the less likely he would be to overlook the trouble they had caused him. Keep him waiting too long, and he might not forgive them at all.

His vision was beginning to waver; his optics kept trying to offline of their own accord. He shook his helm stubbornly, determined not to give in to yet another of this human body's damnable weaknesses. Their only hope of getting their _real_ bodies back depended on it. He just had to...

He was jolted online by an unexpected bouncing and the raised voices of his team calling out in alarm. Motormaster swore as he onlined his optics, wrenching the steering wheel rapidly to the right and then to the left as it attempted to tear itself free of his hands. He couldn't see the road – all that he could make out in the narrow cone of the Accord's headlights were rocks and dry scrub not unlike the harsh landscape they'd been forced to navigate when they left the cave.

He slammed on the brakes, and the car jerked to a ragged halt, but not before something struck the undercarriage with a disheartening _clunk_ that shook the entire vehicle from hubcaps to headlights.

"What happened?" someone said as Motormaster shook his helm dazedly, refreshing his optics. "Why'd we leave the road?"

He didn't bother to reply. Instead he threw open his door and surged out of the car, putting a safe distance between himself and his team before he surrendered to the urge to answer their questions with his fists.

His fuel tank churned with anger and disgust. He'd fallen into recharge – into _recharge!_ – behind the wheel, nearly costing them their only hope of escaping this wretched situation intact!

He wanted to break something. He wanted to _crush_ and _hurt_ and _destroy_. But even that pleasure was denied him – his magnificent sword was gone, his once-powerful fists reduced to pathetic hunks of meat dangling uselessly at the ends of squishy human arms. He roared with frustration, his wordless bellow echoing back among the stones as if to mock him.

Turning on his heel, he stalked back to the car, his hands clenched tightly into fists.

He managed to keep his temper in check – barely – when Dead End grimly informed him that the Accord had a broken front axle. When he speculated that they'd probably cracked the engine block as well, Motormaster threw him against the car hard enough to dent the door panel, then told the others to gather up everything they could carry.

They walked back to the road again in silence.

* * *

Motormaster intended to get a second car by the same method they'd used to acquire the first, but when they returned to the highway they encountered a sign that read _Gas/Food/Lodging 500 yards_ , indicating they were closer to human civilization that he'd thought. Given their recent…mishap and the fact that liberating another car would require them to put more distance between themselves and its former owner, he concluded it would be best for them to walk.

The others complained bitterly about that, especially Drag Strip, who'd discovered during their trek back to the highway that the human shoes he'd coveted so dearly were extremely ill-suited for walking, but a single black look from Motormaster silenced their protests.

They still had money and clothes, he reminded himself. This was only a minor setback.

When they finally stepped onto the brightly lit grounds of the human service area, Motormaster paused and took a moment to assess the condition of his team.

They looked _bad_ , like forty miles of rough road. Breakdown was swaying on his feet. Dead End had set down the suitcase and was now sitting on it, his head bowed in exhaustion. Drag Strip was walking with a noticeable limp as he struggled to bring up the rear, and Wildrider –

Motormaster frowned, his brow furrowing. Where the frag was Wildrider?

He spied him out of the corner of his optic, disappearing through a door with a stylized symbol of a human figure on it. He turned back to the others. "Dead End," he said. "Give me the human's wallet."

Dead End handed it over, and Motormaster opened it, thumbing through the contents and pulling out a single leaf of the green paper the humans used as currency, one with a number twenty printed on it. "Get food," he commanded, jerking his head toward the brightly lit gas station. " _Just_ food. I'll get Wildrider and meet you back outside."

Dead End nodded listlessly, accepting the twenty without argument. He got to his feet, winced and clutched at his side, then moved off toward the gas station with the others in tow, still lugging the battered suitcase.

 _This is just temporary rationing,_ Motormaster told himself as he watched them go. They needed to conserve what money they had to ensure they had enough left over to purchase a computer. _Once we have our bodies back, they can have all the energon they want._

Shaking his helm, he went to check on Wildrider. Knowing him, he was bound to be in trouble.

* * *

Wildrider looked up eagerly as he entered, his optics lighting with recognition. "Check it out, boss!" he said. "I found a mirror!"

Motormaster looked. The room he'd entered was cramped and foul-smelling, lit by harsh fluorescent lights that were less than forgiving to the cracked tile walls and dingy white fixtures. It did, however, boast a bank of grimy mirrors along the wall opposite the door, and it was these that had caught Wildrider's attention.

He stepped closer, ignoring the washbasins below, fascinated by his own reflection in spite of himself. The face that stared back at him was disgustingly human, with brownish skin and revolting mop of thick, wavy hair, but his optics…

They were _purple_. The exact shade of purple as the Decepticon insignia, the same color his old optics had been. His intakes hitched at the sight of them, an unexpected surge of hope welling up in his chassis.

Maybe there was something of their true selves left in these worthless human shells after all?

His mind raced, entranced by the possibilities. What else might they have retained? What of their former abilities might remain at their command?

The thought was so compelling he failed to notice he and Wildrider were no longer alone in the room until an unfamiliar voice snarled, "You got a problem, punk?"

Motormaster turned to discover a human male standing alongside the odd receptacles lining the wall to his right, evidently addressing Wildrider, who was staring at the human with an expression of avid curiosity.

The human performed some small action somewhere in the vicinity of his groin and then turned to face Wildrider, grabbing him by the front of his human garment and shoving him up against the wall, his posture stiff and hostile. "I don't like fags staring at me."

Motormaster huffed in exasperation and crossed the room to intercede, tapping the human on the shoulder with significantly more force than was necessary to gain his attention. Wildrider's grin widened as he spotted him over the human's shoulder, his optics lighting with manic glee.

The human's shoulders hunched defensively as Motormaster's shadow fell over him. Dropping Wildrider, he turned around and looked up…and _up_.

"That _punk_ belongs to me," Motormaster informed him coldly. "Take a walk."

The human's gaze swept over him, taking in Motormaster's massive frame. "Take it easy, man," he stammered, holding up his hands in a gesture of submission. "He's all yours."

Motormaster jerked his chin toward the door, and the human took the hint, slinking past him to the exit. "Let's go," he told Wildrider, turning to leave.

"Wait, I wanna try something," Wildrider said. "I think I figured out what this plug thing is for."

Motormaster exhaled impatiently. "Fine," he said. "Hurry up."

"This is so cool!" Wildrider said a moment later. "And I feel so much better – it's like flushing your radiator on a hot day!"

Motormaster turned back to stare at him incredulously, arching a skeptical eyebrow.

"You gotta try this, boss," Wildrider said.

Reluctantly, he tried it. His human clothing got in the way, and it was probably the most disgusting thing he'd ever done in his life, but Motormaster had to admit that he felt better afterward; the uncomfortable feeling of pressure that had been building up in his abdomen eased. Wildrider watched him the whole time he did it, fascinated.

As he readjusted his clothing and turned to leave, another human came into the room, making a beeline for the metal stalls lining the opposite wall. Wildrider's face lit up with interest.

" _No,_ " Motormaster said firmly, grabbing him by the back of the neck and steering him out of the room.

_Primus, what had he done to deserve this?_


	5. Driven to Distraction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 5! Wildrider goes last, because after you've driven with him, you may never get into a car again.

**Chapter 5 : Driven to Distraction**

Wildrider had been ordered to fetch canned liquid from the dispenser at the end of the passage, so after he discovered for himself that he couldn't pound or kick the cans out of the machine, he had no option but to feed money into it. Motormaster had given him just enough for that.

He grinned as the cans dropped one by one, thinking of Motormaster and the sandwiches Dead End had bought for them. The rest of them had started eating in the parking lot outside the gas station, while Motormaster had just held his sandwich between thumb and forefinger. But the smell of the food, the sounds of chewing or just the demands of his now-human body must have been too much for him, because he eventually took a cautious bite.

After that the rest of the sandwich disappeared down his intake at speed, though he looked even more disgusted at his own action and Wildrider decided not to say, "Didja like it, boss?" or "Next time try the chicken salad."

The pause for refueling seemed to make Dead End, Breakdown and Drag Strip look a little less likely to fall over in stasis lock, and they headed for the nearby motel. Motormaster sent Dead End to pay for accommodations for the night and to check into transportation to the nearest city, where Wildrider supposed they would find a computer, contact the base and become cybernetic again somehow.

Until then, though, he planned to enjoy himself as much as possible in human form. So he paid for six cans, and shook the last one as hard as he could for a few minutes. Then he replaced it in the little compartment at the base of the machine, scooped up their drinks and hurried back to their room, giggling to himself at the thought of a human opening the free can.

It was nothing compared to the destruction he normally managed to cause, but there was only so much he could do in his current condition. _I'll get better at finding ways around this,_ he thought with his usual optimism as he banged a heel against their room door. It shuddered in its frame and Motormaster opened it a moment later, scowling.

Wildrider gave him a cheery grin and sauntered in, though he had to leap to avoid the slamming door. Motormaster plucked a can from his arms, leaned against the closed door and yanked the tab off. For a moment Wildrider was genuinely sorry that he hadn't shaken that particular can up.

He dropped the rest of the cans on the single berth. There had been two originally, but the others had pushed them together while he was gone and were now sprawled all over them. Wildrider was relieved; the prospect of sleeping alone rarely appealed to him in his real form, much less in this human shell.

Breakdown helped himself to a Coke, but Drag Strip grimaced. "I don't feel good," he said, rolling to a sitting position and drawing his legs up. "Why don't humans have any fragging self-diagnostics?"

"What's wrong?" Breakdown said.

Drag Strip laid a hand on his lower abdomen. "Feels like pressure's building up here." His optic ridges were still twisted in a frown.

Wildrider giggled again. "Oh, you need to flush your radiator! I saw a human doing that in the restroom back at the gas station so I tried it too."

Everyone turned to look at him. "How?" Drag Strip said. 'I can't see any caps to unscrew."

That was true – nothing on their human bodies was labeled, much less given fill lines. But Wildrider was always delighted when he discovered something new; it was such a change to have the team looking to him for information rather than brushing him aside because he was the crazy one who sometimes heard voices.

"It's that funny-looking plug thingy," he explained, pointing to show what he meant.

Drag Strip looked down at his lap. "What, the siphon?"

"It's not a siphon," Wildrider said, "because it doesn't suck anything _up_. I checked. It just expels fluid. Go on, try it!"

"Not in the sink or the washrack; we need those to bathe." Dead End gestured at the washracks with a thumb. "Use that other thing."

Drag Strip immediately jumped off the bed and headed towards the 'racks, so Wildrider ambled after him to help, only to have another door slammed in his face. "Stay out while I'm doing this!" Drag Strip's voice was a little muffled, but the annoyance came through loud and clear. "I've already been injured there twice today!"

 _Sheesh. Human bodies are so wimpy._ Wildrider sat down and turned on the television, flipping through channels to see if he could find a film about cars they hadn't seen yet. Naturally, Drag Strip picked that moment to open the door.

"I'm going to wash now," he said to the room in general. "Who wants to scrub my back?"

Breakdown reached for the remote control as Motormaster dropped into the room's single chair, which creaked beneath his weight. He propped his large feet up on the table and drained what looked like half his can of soda. Wildrider leaned back, crossing his ankles comfortably and Dead End, even with his new visor pushed up on his head, looked as catatonic in human form as he usually did in root mode.

In his peripheral vision Wildrider saw Drag Strip blink uncertainly, as though he wasn't sure whether he had just spoken or not. "C'mon," he said, looking from one to another of his teammates. "I'll do yours!"

Wildrider stared ahead at the television screen and tried his best not to laugh, though Motormaster smirked at Drag Strip's increasingly infuriated expression. _Wait for it,_ he thought and got up just as Drag Strip opened his mouth to deliver some irate comment. "Sure, Dragster, I'll come," he said cheerfully and strolled to the 'racks.

Drag Strip glowered at him but disappeared around the edge of the door while Breakdown shifted a little closer to Dead End. "You'll help me, right?" Wildrider heard him whisper, and Dead End nodded.

Wildrider grinned as he peeled off his clothes. It didn't matter how much their appearances had changed, he would always be able to recognize the shy, diffident sound of Breakdown's voice and the light that flickered in the depths of Dead End's eyes.

Drag Strip had already stripped and stepped beneath the wall-mounted nozzle. "We don't have any cleanser," he said. "Or even a brush."

"We've got this." Wildrider reached for a small oblong that had been on the side of the sink. When they had first checked out the 'racks he had taken it for food of some kind, because it had a paper wrapping and smelled vaguely nice, but Breakdown had told him it was soap – right after he had bitten into it.

"Everything is so fragging tiny," Drag Strip grumbled. "Oh well, at least we're using it first. C'mon in." He turned a lever and water sprayed down, plastering his fair hair to his scalp.

Wildrider gasped with shock. The water was so cold that everything in his body seemed to cringe away from it. Suddenly he understood why these washracks were so enclosed – first with a low wall surrounding the actual area and then the lockable door. If baths were always such miserable experiences, no wonder humans had to be penned in for them. The near-freezing temperature wouldn't have bothered him as a robot, but as a human it turned his skin pebbly with little bumps and made his teeth chatter.

He felt a tightening in his pelvic unit and looked down.

"H-h-hurry up," Drag Strip said, hands scrubbing hard at his upper arms in what looked more like an attempt to stay warm by generating friction than to clean himself.

Wildrider was too preoccupied with his latest discovery, though. "Drag Strip, look!" he said excitedly. "It's retractable!"

Drag Strip turned, shivering, and glanced down as well. His skin, Wildrider noticed, was a little paler now. "Thank Primus, at least it's less likely to get damaged that way. Now hurry the frag up and do my back!"

"Okay, okay." Wildrider pushed at his shoulder to turn him around again. "Slag!"

"What?" Resting both hands against the wall, Drag Strip tried to look back over his shoulder.

"Your back is so… smooth." Wildrider ran a hand over the place where Drag Strip's spoiler and rear diffuser had been. "And is that a transformation seam in your aft?' He poked at it curiously.

Drag Strip jerked. "Do that again and I'll flatten your faceplate! You want to jab someone's aft, go for Motormaster's!"

"Crazy, not stupid," Wildrider reminded him, then got down to business. It still felt weird to be touching something so smooth and soft and _organic,_ something without sidepods or even racing stripes, though Drag Strip soon told him to stop with the running commentary on the weirdness. By the time he had finished soaping and scrubbing, Drag Strip's lips were tinged blue, although Wildrider felt sure he would be pleased by their return to their original color scheme.

"Okay, my turn!" he said. His jaw components were vibrating of their own accord and his fingers trembling so much that he nearly dropped the soap. Drag Strip grabbed it and shoved him unceremoniously under the nozzle. Wildrider shivered even harder, but was soon distracted by the lever and controls in the wall.

"Hey, what does this do if you turn it?" he said, and did so. The water temperature immediately became a little more tolerable and within moments it was warm. Wildrider relaxed under the soothing flow.

"Ahh," he sighed, closing his eyes in bliss and ignoring the ominous silence behind him. "This feels so good! Hey, sunshine, you should have-"

Drag Strip flung the soap at his head.

* * *

After Drag Strip, still in a snippy mood, had left the 'racks, Wildrider sauntered out at a more leisurely pace, blotting his hair with a towel. Dead End muttered something about it being about time and went in with Breakdown in tow. Motormaster held a half-crushed can in one hand as he looked off into the distance, and Wildrider plopped down on the bed beside Drag Strip as stirring music resounded from the television.

"Whatcha watching?" he said. "Does it have cars in it?"

"I'd rather not see anything with cars at the moment," Drag Strip said tightly. He rolled over and rested his chin on his forearms, staring at the screen.

 _Great,_ Wildrider thought in disappointment, though he supposed that it wouldn't be such a bad idea to watch a film about humans. If they were going to be in that condition for much longer, some tips on how to blend in with the planet's native population might be useful. He could cause even more trouble if he didn't stand out too much.

So he finished the last of his drink as the opening titles appeared. "What's gone?" he said to Drag Strip.

"Huh?"

"What did the wind take away?"

"How the frag should I know? It just started!"

Wildrider huffed, perched his empty soda can on top of Drag Strip's head and continued watching. Most of the film was confusing, but he liked the sound of the war that was about to start. The North and the South sounded a lot like the Autobots and Decepticons.

By then Dead End and Breakdown had finished. Motormaster went to the 'racks while Breakdown joined them on Drag Strip's other side, though Dead End told them he had read the book on which the film was based and it ended about as miserably as possible for everyone.

"Well, don't spoil it for the rest of us!" Drag Strip snapped without looking up.

Motormaster stalked out of the 'racks a little while later, dragging a towel over his arms so hard that it looked as though he was trying to remove skin as well as water. He tossed the towel over the back of his chair.

"All right, enough wasting time." He kicked the chair so that it faced them and sat down. "I want to see how much we've still got of our real forms."

"Um, nothing?" Wildrider said, then flinched back at the glare Motormaster turned on him. "I mean… we're human now, boss." He didn't even have his favorite personalized license plates with a funny spelling of "Wildrider" on them.

"I know we're human!" A fuel line began to throb in Motormaster's forehead, and Wildrider watched it in fascination. "The next idiot to tell me the fragging obvious will be made one with the wall in short order! But we still have a few things in common with our true forms."

Wildrider exchanged a look with his teammates but decided to keep quiet. So Dead End gave them all a resigned glance and said, "Such as?"

"Such as," Motormaster said, emphasizing each word, "my optics. They're the same color."

"Well, whoop de doo," Drag Strip whispered. Wildrider nearly laughed, but managed to turn that into a cough just in time.

"So let's try the rest of you. Dead End, combat radar?"

Dead End shook his head.

The fuel line grew a little more prominent. "Breakdown, try to sabotage something."

Breakdown looked bewildered. "Like what?"

"Like that stupid television set!" Motormaster looked about ready to put his foot through it.

"But how am I going to do that without an engine?"

Motormaster rose from his chair, making them all shift backwards over the bed. "Humans have… internal components similar to engines. Try revving those."

"But if that works it'll break the television!" Wildrider pointed out. "And the movie's just getting good."

Breakdown nodded. "The Yankees are about to invade Atlantis."

"Atlanta," Dead End said, lowering his face into his hand.

Motormaster's eyes narrowed to slivers and his voice was suddenly very quiet. " _I said_ try _it_."

The Stunticons tended to shrink from that tone even when neither weapons nor fists were in evidence. Breakdown sat up on the bed and looked down at his bare chest as if waiting for an engine to spontaneously turn over inside. Nothing happened except for the movements of his ventilations.

Wildrider wondered if turning the two little knobs on Breakdown's chest would help at all. Maybe one was positive and the other negative and hooking jumper cables up to them would work. But before he could suggest that, Breakdown's vocalizer made an odd guttural noise, then repeated the sound.

"Breakdown," Dead End said, "that's clearing your throat, not revving your… whatever humans have instead of engines."

"Everyone's looking at me," Breakdown said miserably.

Motormaster clenched a fist and dug the knuckles hard into his forehead. "Everyone, look at the slagging ceiling."

There was another long-drawn-out pause.

"Vroom?" Breakdown said finally, with a look on his face that told them he didn't know what else to say.

 _This is it,_ Wildrider thought, _we're all slagged._ But Motormaster only stared at Breakdown, his ventilations harshly audible, before he spun on his heel. He wrenched the door open, then stopped, turned around and grabbed the towel he had just discarded. Wrapping it around his frame, he strode out. The door slammed shut behind him so hard that it rattled.

The rest of the Stunticons all looked at Dead End. "What do we do now?" Breakdown asked and got a shrug in reply. So they finished the movie, which ended just as Dead End had prophesied and he actually looked somewhat gratified by their expressions of displeasure. Motormaster came back in as the next film was beginning and stamped on the television's plug, tearing it free from the wall.

"Get some recharge." He went to the external chronometer the motel had provided and twisted a dial. "The bus leaves at eight tomorrow." Pulling the towel off, he got into bed. His massive frame took up most of one mattress.

Wildrider didn't quite know how he was going to sleep in the silence, and he was disappointed that he hadn't had a chance to build a fort with the pillows. But he was also sure that if he mentioned either problem to Motormaster he would spend the night in stasis lock. So he and Drag Strip engaged in a brief tussle to decide who would end up _not_ sleeping beside Motormaster, a fight Wildrider lost when Motormaster hauled them apart and pushed them down before turning his back to them.

Drag Strip smirked, but to Wildrider's surprise it wasn't as bad as he'd expected. Motormaster's back now lacked a row of tires so it was a lot smoother to lean against, and his body heat seemed to soak through Wildrider like an oil bath. Dead End turned the light off and settled down on the other side of the bed beside Breakdown, while Drag Strip curled up with his back pressed against Wildrider's chest. He reached over and drew Wildrider's arm around his waist.

Wildrider still couldn't sleep. With the lights off he couldn't see how much Drag Strip's frame had changed, but he could feel how different it was. He shut his eyes and told himself it was still Drag Strip, just as it was still Motormaster on his other side.

But Drag Strip smelled strange as well. Wildrider remembered the sharp scent of Pinnacle Bodywork Shampoo and the sweet resiny polish that Drag Strip liked, but now he smelled human skin and soap and a slight hint of sweat. It was all so unfamiliar.

 _Just ignore it,_ he thought, _or you'll never get any recharge tonight._ He pressed nearer and Drag Strip's hair tickled his nose.

But the warmth and closeness still felt good, even if they were generated by organic bodies instead of cybernetic ones. And although the low idle of engines was gone, Wildrider felt something else – a rhythmic thud that seemed to vibrate gently from within Drag Strip's back where it pressed against his chest. It was soundless but oddly soothing, and it was the last thing he felt before he slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reference to Atlantis was inspired by anon_decepticon's fic, "After Atlantis," and the mention of jumper cables is from her fic "Jumpstart" (a great one-shot starring Wildrider and Drag Strip). Also, internet cookies to anyone who can tell which movie they watched in this chapter! - QoS


	6. Highway Robbery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 6! Breakdown's back, and he'd really appreciate it if you'd stop staring at him.

**Chapter 6 : Highway Robbery**

Breakdown peered nervously around the corner, his optics scanning the street they'd chosen.

It was deserted, empty save for a scrap of newspaper blowing down the sidewalk. As he watched, a human couple exited a building roughly a block away, crossed the street and headed off in the opposite direction. He watched them as they disappeared into the night.

He fidgeted, adjusting his grip on the heavy metal flashlight, the one they'd found in the Accord's glove compartment. Of course the street was deserted – that was why they'd chosen this particular spot, because it lacked human witnesses.

Or did it? Breakdown had the distinct feeling that they were being watched.

 _Stop it,_ he commanded himself, quashing the urge to look up at the windows of the surrounding buildings. He'd already done that twice in the last few minutes. The ones facing the street opposite them were boarded up, and the ones on either side were mostly dark, staring down at him like black, lifeless optics –

 _Stop it!_ he thought. Biting his lip, he reached out blindly to his side with his free hand. Wildrider's slipped into it.

"Don't worry, Breaks," Wildrider said, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze before releasing it again. "Everything's gonna be fine. Just like last time, all right?"

"Yeah," he said diffidently. _At least it's not as bad as the bus,_ he thought. The ride into the city from the service station had been harrowing. Everyone had stared at them, even though they were no longer naked, and if not for the presence of his team, Breakdown would have gotten off before they'd gone two miles. He shuddered, recalling the way the other passengers had whispered to one another as the Stunticons boarded, the way they'd stared when Dead End offered the driver one of the access passes they'd found in the human's wallet only to be informed contemptuously, _Sorry buddy, we don't take plastic._

That had been embarrassing; apparently the cards weren't travel passes after all. Dead End had been mortified that his supposition was wrong and had sulked for most of the trip, which hadn't helped ease Breakdown's anxiety any.

He slipped his hand into his pocket, feeling the wallet they'd acquired earlier. The location they'd chosen for that ambush had been similar to this one, and he'd felt the same way right up until their chosen target approached them, but they'd succeeded. There was nothing to worry about.

 _Just one more,_ he thought. _Then we can meet Motormaster and the others at the roundelay point and go back to the motel._

That was probably why he felt so nervous; this was the first time they'd been separated since they became human. Breakdown would have preferred to stick together, but Motormaster had decided they'd have a better shot at getting more money if they split up. He'd taken the tire iron from the car's trunk, leaving Breakdown and Wildrider with only the flashlight between them.

Not that he'd _wanted_ the tire iron – Breakdown had deliberately chosen the flashlight as his weapon because it was less conspicuous – but he wished he had his concussion rifle instead, or that there'd at least been a weapon for Wildrider, too.

The sound of a door opening reached his audials, and a solitary set of footsteps approached them. Breakdown tensed in anticipation. Beside him, he sensed Wildrider doing the same.

He counted under his breath as the footsteps drew closer. When he got to one, Wildrider stepped out of the alley they'd been lurking in as if he were simply taking a shortcut, deliberately bumping into the human as he strode past.

"Hey, watch where you're going!"

"Sorry," Wildrider said. "Didn't see you th – whoa! What happened to your hair?"

Breakdown frowned. That wasn't part of the script! He peeked around the corner, praying the human would be too preoccupied by Wildrider to notice him. When he saw him, Wildrider's odd question abruptly made sense; the man's head was completely hairless, reflecting the dim yellow glow of the nearby streetlights. _He looks like that Aerialbot,_ he thought as he slipped out of the alley.

The human snorted derisively, trying to shoulder past Wildrider, but Wildrider grabbed his arm.

"Your head is really shiny," Wildrider said. "Do you polish it?"

"I'll polish the sidewalk with your face if you don't get outta my way," the bald man retorted. "Get lost."

Wildrider grinned. "Be glad to," he said, "just as soon as you give me your wallet."

The man stiffened, his hands curling into fists. "Big mistake, kid," he said, shaking off Wildrider's grip and drawing his arm back, but Breakdown was already in motion. The flashlight struck the back of the human's bald head with unerring precision, and he dropped like a sack of spare parts.

"Good shot," Wildrider said as they hefted the dazed human and maneuvered his limp form back into the alley. "Told ya everything would be fine."

"Let's just get the money and go," he said, rifling through the bald man's pockets "I don't like it here."

"I like his jacket," Wildrider said. "You think the boss'd be mad if I took that, too?"

The jacket in question was black leather, and Breakdown understood instantly why Wildrider wanted it – the seats of his alt mode had been upholstered in the same material. "No," he said. "Just hurry up and get it before he wakes up. I didn't hit him that hard." He'd didn't mention that he'd been afraid to.

Wildrider quickly wrestled the jacket free while Breakdown retrieved the man's wallet, slipping it into his pocket alongside the first. Afterward he straightened and peered out into the street again. There wasn't a human in sight.

"Clear," he said. "Let's go."

They left the alley and headed down the street, doing their best to look like they belonged there. The place they'd arranged to meet up with the other Stunticons wasn't far, but Breakdown still felt uneasy. Even with Wildrider strolling along beside him, he had to fight the urge to quicken his pace.

"You think we should try for another one?" Wildrider asked after they'd gone a few blocks.

"No," he replied quietly. He couldn't shake the feeling that they were being watched. "Let's just go and meet the others. Something's not right."

Wildrider scoffed but didn't argue. Breakdown vented a sigh of relief – at least Wildrider hadn't teased him about being scared – and cast a quick, nervous glance over his shoulder at the street behind them.

A flicker of movement caught his optic.

He stiffened abruptly, a wave of tension shooting up his backstrut. He found himself longing for his rear view mirror and wishing his human optics functioned as well in the dark as his real ones did. He was certain he'd seen something, but he couldn't make out anything outside the circles of light the streetlamps cast on the sidewalk. Everything beyond them was shrouded in shadow.

"I think someone's following us," he whispered.

Wildrider mimicked his movement, glancing surreptitiously over his shoulder. "I don't see anything," he said. "You worry too much, we're fine."

He nodded, noting that Wildrider had started walking faster despite his dismissive tone. They hurried on in silence, keeping their heads down. Just a few more blocks…

That was when the sound of footsteps reached their audials.

Breakdown hazarded another glance behind him, his ventilations quickening. A pair of human males was following them, their slow deliberate pace and grim expressions making it clear that he and Wildrider were the focus of their attention.

"Two," he whispered, looking around for possible escape routes.

Wildrider made a soft sound of acknowledgement. "Even odds," he murmured back, his tone begging the question – _fight, or flee?_

But before Breakdown could reply, two more humans stepped out into the street in front of them, blocking their path.

There was an alley immediately to their right. Breakdown grabbed Wildrider's arm and ducked into it, pulling Wildrider along with him. His grip tightened on the flashlight. He didn't know who these humans were or what they wanted, but he doubted he or Wildrider would like whatever they had in mind. Dropping all pretense of casualness, they began to run, pelting down the alley as fast as their human legs could carry them.

It ended in a brick wall.

Breakdown whirled around to face the entrance, his optics casting about frantically for some other means of escape. There was a rusted ladder just above him, part of some sort of metal structure that scaled the side of the building to his right, but it hung several feet out of reach. The walls hemming them in were heavily scarred with graffiti and age, lacking either windows or doors. They were trapped.

The two pairs of men appeared at the mouth of the alley. Another man had joined them, and Breakdown recognized immediately that he was their leader – it showed in the way he carried himself, the way the other four hung back a pace as he strode confidently toward them. "Yo, _esé,_ " he said. "You on our turf."

For all that human culture was still mostly a mystery to him, Breakdown instantly parsed his meaning. These humans had claimed this area as theirs, and found the presence of strangers within it objectionable. As a Decepticon, territorial grievances were something Breakdown could readily understand. His processor was unable to define the word the human had called him, but it identified the language as Spanish, so he responded in kind.

"We're sorry for trespassing," he said. "We didn't know. We'll leave now."

The human seemed unimpressed by his offer; his optics narrowed. "Too late for that, holmes."

 _One of them must have seen us rob that other human,_ Breakdown thought. "We'll give you the money," he offered.

The human laughed at that, and the others joined him. "Yeah _esé_ , you will," he said.

Breakdown felt a cold drop of liquid trickle down his backstrut as he realized most of them were armed. At least two of the four blocking their only path of escape were carrying lengths of wood or metal, and from their expressions, they intended to use them.

Never before had Breakdown felt so painfully _vulnerable_ as he did in that moment. As a mech he'd have found their weapons laughable, but to his new human body they were as potentially deadly as Megatron's fusion cannon. Worse, they were all _looking_ at him...!

He retreated a step, flinching as his unfamiliar clothing brushed against the wall behind him. They were cornered, outnumbered, and outgunned, lacking even the ability to comm for help. He cast an alarmed look at Wildrider as terror tightened his throat, cutting off his air.

Wildrider might have been frightened too, but the maniacal grin that stretched across his lip components seemed anything but. "Don't worry, Breaks," he said, sneering at the humans as they began to close in on them. "I'll deal with these slaggers."

The leader smirked at his words, raising a hand curled into a loose fist. There was a soft _snick,_ and a slim silvery blade suddenly appeared in it. Breakdown's optics widened in surprise – did humans have subspace compartments, too?

Wildrider seemed equally impressed by the display. "That's awesome! How'd you do that?"

"'Rider, get back," he hissed, dropping instinctively into a fighting crouch as the humans moved in for the kill.

But instead Wildrider gave a resounding battle cry and threw himself at the humans' feet, toppling two of them as they faltered in surprise. The third's initial swing flew harmlessly over his head.

The leader dodged Wildrider's impromptu charge, and one of the others was standing out of range. Breakdown flung the flashlight at the latter, and was gratified when it accurately pegged the human on the helm, dropping him in his tracks.

Wildrider did his best to keep the other three occupied, twisting and tangling himself around their legs as they tried to punch and kick him, lashing out with a fist to strike at the vulnerable kibble of one while sinking his denta into the lower leg of another. There was a howl of agony, and the two humans left standing redoubled their efforts, smashing their weapons down on Wildrider's back and arms – and head, Breakdown saw in sickening dread – with heavy, meaty thuds.

But Breakdown couldn't help him. In the moment he'd hesitated, distracted by Wildrider's attack, the leader came after him with the knife. He ducked back reflexively, narrowly avoiding getting stabbed in the optic, but for a moment he actually thought he had been. A sharp stinging sensation exploded from his forehead, and within seconds he was half blinded by a rush of hot, sticky fluid running down the side of his face.

Breakdown made a wild grab for the human's arm as the knife slashed at him again, halting the second strike before it could open another gash in his faceplate but slicing open his palm in the process. For a tense moment they grappled, Breakdown's panic rising as his fluid-slicked grip on the gang leader's wrist started to slip.

The sound of heavy blows striking home in the alley beyond him were coming faster now, closer together. _They're killing Wildrider,_ he thought as he dodged a kick from his adversary, fighting to keep the blade away from his face. _There's too many of them; they're going to –_

But before he could finish the thought, the human was jerked out of his grip and thrown against the alley wall. Breakdown looked up in surprise, and met Motormaster's enraged purple optics. Motormaster looked livid, his expression alone enough to make Breakdown cringe in terror, but at the same time he felt more relieved than he'd ever felt in his life.

Motormaster turned away from him, plucking the gang leader up off the ground and slamming him into the wall a few more times. Breakdown peered past him cautiously, looking for Wildrider.

The two humans who'd been attacking him were now facing off against Drag Strip and Dead End, and for a moment Breakdown couldn't see Wildrider at all. But then Drag Strip darted to one side to avoid a clumsy strike, and Breakdown spotted him crouched on the ground at Drag Strip's feet, wobbling unsteadily as he attempted to rise.

He was about to go help him when the shrill wail of police sirens rose up over the sound of blows being exchanged in the alley, freezing the combatants in their tracks. The humans left standing broke off their attack and fled, abandoning their leader.

Motormaster dropped the hapless human and turned to face them, glancing up at the ladder hanging directly above him. "Up," he commanded.

No one argued; they all knew what those sirens meant. Drag Strip shot forward, scaling Motormaster like a tree and clambering up the ladder. When he reached the first landing, he turned and extended a hand, waiting to assist whoever followed him.

Dead End went next, and then Motormaster lifted Wildrider so that Drag Strip and Dead End could pull him up after them, ignoring his dazed protests that he was fine.

Breakdown turned to follow, pausing when a glint of silver caught his optic. The gang leader's knife was lying on the ground at Motormaster's feet, a few inches from its unconscious owner. He scooped it up hastily, securing it between his denta as he accepted the boost Motormaster gave him, and climbed up onto the crowded landing with the others.

Left alone on the ground with the sirens coming closer, Motormaster jumped, catching hold of the lowest rung. The ladder creaked ominously, and for a second Breakdown was afraid it would give way beneath his weight, but to his relief it held, and Motormaster swiftly hauled himself up to join them.

The metal structure rattled as they quickly scaled it, reaching the roof of the building just as the strobing red and blue lights of the police lit the walls of the alley below. Peering over the ledge, they discovered that with the exception of the leader, all of the remaining downed humans had recovered and fled.

They watched in silence as the police roped off the alley with yellow tape and took the lone human into custody, careful not to make a sound. At one point one of the human authority figures glanced up at the ladder, but didn't bother to climb up and investigate.

They waited for a long time after the police left, crouched and huddled together in the dark, before finally daring to come back down.


	7. Please Drive Safely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 7! Breakdown refuses to come out of hiding - we think being the narrator twice in a row spooked him.

**Chapter 7 : Please Drive Safely**

By the time they reached their room again, the tension of the fight and the escape had drained away, leaving Breakdown exhausted. His self-repair system – thankfully humans had one – had sealed the leaks on his hand and forehead, but there was enough dried blood on his face and clothes that Motormaster ruled out taking a cab back to the motel.

So they walked the entire distance, which seemed to have tripled in length. Breakdown kept looking around in case they were being followed again – _isn't there some kind of portable radar system we could get?_ – and Wildrider was stumbling so badly by the end of the trip that Motormaster finally picked him up and tossed him over one broad shoulder without breaking stride. Wildrider just slumped there and didn't say anything, which was even more worrying.

Even when the door of their room closed behind them, Breakdown didn't feel safe. Dead End led him into the 'racks, peeled off his ruined clothes and washed him down, carefully dabbing at his face and around the cut in his head. It didn't make much difference. The water stung when it trickled into his injuries, and Breakdown felt as if all his internal components were drawing themselves up into small cold knots.

Wrapped in three towels because he was still shivering occasionally, he plodded out and sat down on the bed so Drag Strip could take Wildrider into the 'racks. A pot of coffee had brewed by then and the television was on. It felt normal – about as normal as their lives could get at that point, Breakdown supposed.

 _And we're lucky_ , he thought. All that time they had complained and grumbled about the lack of clothes, the long distances to walk, the strange solid food… it was nothing compared to the knowledge that he and Wildrider could have died that night. _Or been captured by human law enforcement._

Breakdown held a paper cup of hot coffee wrapped in paper towels and sipped while Motormaster looked him over. Finally he turned away with an unreadable expression and began looking through the wallets they had collected, making a little stack of the paper money.

"Did we get enough?" Dead End asked.

"Nine hundred and twenty," Motormaster said, thumb riffling through the stack. "Is that enough to—"

There was a knock on the door.

Coffee slopped from Breakdown's cup as his hand jolted, and he would have burned himself if not for the towel across his thighs. Wildrider and Drag Strip froze in the doorway of the washracks. Motormaster turned silently and set the money down on the bed without taking his eyes off the door.

Again someone knocked.

Dead End slid like a shadow to the other side of the door as Motormaster picked up the tire iron. Breakdown swallowed hard, his mind racing. The knife he'd found was concealed in his clothes, which were lying on the bathroom floor. _I'll throw the pot of coffin at whoever breaks in as long as Dead End and Motormaster are clear—_

Motormaster yanked the door open. From where he sat Breakdown couldn't see who was outside, but there was a blank silence.  
"Emily!" someone shouted from outside. "It's three-ten, not three-oh-one!"

"Oh." There was a nervous chuckle from whoever stood outside. "I'm sorry, I have the wrong room." Breakdown heard quick footsteps move away. "Sorry. Didn't mean to bother you."

Motormaster said nothing, nor did he move. Dead End pushed the door shut.

Breakdown slumped in what was not so much relief as the absence of immediate fear. Fuel was still hammering through his system when Motormaster turned and set down the tire iron.

Wildrider came to sit beside Breakdown, leaning tiredly against him, but Motormaster only moved away from the door when the television started to show a news broadcast about a gang-related altercation that had occurred just an hour before. "Police have a suspect in custody," a human said just before Motormaster's face twisted in a scowl and he turned the television off.

"Breakdown," he said. "We've got nearly a thousand dollars. Is that enough?"

"For a computer?" Breakdown felt doubtful.

"No, to replace your fragged-up processors."

Breakdown ignored that, though it made his face grow warm for some reason. "I don't know. Maybe. I'd have to check with whoever sells them." Somehow, he didn't think it would be – as far as he knew, the best computers in human societies were owned by research institutes and military bases and the government, not by people who had to steal money to pay for their rented rooms.

But he knew better than to say that to Motormaster at the moment. Not only would it be bad timing, Motormaster would just point out that he _didn't_ really know until he had checked with a computer company.

He felt as if he had been carrying a heavy weight across his shoulders and someone had added a load of I-beams to it. _How am I supposed to find a computer company?_ Their room had a telephone, but Breakdown didn't know of anyone to call.

Motormaster didn't look pleased at that, but he didn't look angry either, which was the best that Breakdown supposed he could expect. "All right. Then tomorrow you can search for a human establishment which sells them while we get a little more money just in case—"

"I think we should leave," someone said in a small voice.

Breakdown only realized that he had spoken when everyone turned to look at him… and Primus, he would never quite get used to that! He cringed back into the towels reflexively.

"Leave?" Motormaster said as if pronouncing a word in another language.

Breakdown swallowed again. The dark gleaming surface of the coffee in his cup was wobbling for some reason. He nodded.

"It's not safe here," he said, still quietly. He nearly always spoke more softly than the rest of his team – except perhaps Dead End – but now it felt as though there was a steel band around his throat. Not enough to choke him silent, but just tight enough to make him aware of its presence.

Motormaster snorted irritably. "Those pieces of slag won't bother us again. We chased 'em off, remember?"

Wildrider raised his head. "Boss. They had a knife."

"Yeah, they _had_ a knife. Breakdown's got it now, and the rest of us can get knives too."

"And what shall we do when they get guns?" Dead End said.

The silence that fell was coldly tense, tinged with fear. But for once, Breakdown didn't feel as if it was something Motormaster was using to control them – it was something outside Motormaster, something potentially stronger than him.

That scared him even more. He pressed closer to Wildrider, drawing as much strength as possible from his warm solid presence – human, but it didn't matter, it was still Wildrider – and spoke.

"We were on their trajectory… I mean, territory," he said, looking from Motormaster to Dead End. "They told me so. Even if we move someplace else, what if there's another group of humans controlling _that?_ And you heard what they said on the television—the police have one of the people who attacked us."

Motormaster had many faults, but being slow on the uptake wasn't one of them. "They'll interrogate him."

Wildrider nodded. "With bright lights. And rubber hoses." He lay down and curled up around Breakdown, pillowing his head on a bent elbow.

"Rubber…? Never mind." Motormaster rubbed his jaw, the heel of his hand making a strange rasping sound. "Still, even if he describes us, they don't know anything else. Like who we are, or where we're staying."

"But the more humans we ambush, the more we risk being caught," Breakdown said. "And then they'll put us in a human brig." Just the thought of the security cameras in such a place made him shudder.

Dead End grimaced. "Those probably aren't cleaned very often."

Motormaster ignored him. "If that happens, we just stay quiet. Not a word, even if they use rubber hoses on us – and no, Wildrider, I don't want to know how they use those."

"What if they separate us?" Breakdown said.

That struck home. He could see it in the sudden stiffening of Motormaster's shoulders, the unblinking fixity in his eyes. Wildrider's breathing stopped for a moment. Whatever else they had lost, they were still the team they had been from the moment of their creation, still had the others who were a part of themselves in a way that no one who wasn't part of a gestalt could understand. The thought of being taken from that…

"We'll leave, then," Motormaster said finally. "Go somewhere else."

Breakdown had pushed his share of the discussion about as far as he could. He caught Dead End's eye, but Drag Strip was quicker as always.

"So we just repeat the same performance somewhere different?" he said, and managed to make it sound like the usual challenge-to-authority that Motormaster ignored when he could and beat down when he couldn't.

That time, though, Motormaster just looked at him, looked in silence until Drag Strip shifted back a little, shoulders to the wall, and dropped his gaze. When Motormaster took a step towards him Drag Strip's head jolted back up, but for once there was no cruel, anticipatory look on Motormaster's face. He looked as though he had his back to a wall as well.

"What do _you_ propose we do?" he said through clenched jaws.

 _Not fight with each other,_ Breakdown thought. He looked at Dead End again, silently pleading.

"I suppose we could leave," Dead End said. "Not that it makes a difference in the end, of course. _Plus ca change, plus c'est le meme chose._ Eventually we'll be caught and discovered, and in these little organic bodies we're sure to die quickly and messily."

Even Motormaster looked as though he didn't quite know how to respond to that at first, but it shifted his attention away from Drag Strip. "We're not going to die, so shut the frag up about that," he said, then rounded on Breakdown. "All right, you brought this up. Find a way for us to get money without attracting human attention."

 _Why do I always have to be the ideas mech at times like this?_ Breakdown thought, but he knew the answer. Being the team's scout, he took the most interest in human society, and he had always thought that if only he was a human, none of them would stare at him. He would be wonderfully unnoticed, would slip as easily into the native population as a card into a pack, rather than standing out as a fast and expensive sports car.

"I'm waiting." Motormaster gritted the two words out.

_Think, Breakdown, think! How do humans get money without having law enforcement come after them?_

"Jobs," he said suddenly.

Motormaster's optic ridges came together. He looked at Dead End as if waiting for the word to be translated.

"Employment," Dead End said. "We find paid work."

"Work?" Drag Strip's lip curled. "As what?"

"I don't know." Breakdown resisted an urge to reply, "Traffic control cops." "But there have to be at least some jobs available in a human city. Especially a big one."

Motormaster still looked deeply skeptical. "And why would anyone hire us? We don't even have human names."

"I could come up with those." Breakdown had already come up with several different human names for himself, on the accounts he used for hacking.

Drag Strip folded his arms. "I like _my_ name. Drag Strip. What's wrong with that?"

An ominous rumble came from Motormaster's throat, almost as if he still had a powerful engine. "It stands out like a plane in a parking lot, that's what's wrong with it, and if the humans know who you are they'll haul you off to their brig. Or better yet, turn you over to the Autobots. You fine with that? Because I think I might be."

"All _right_ ," Drag Strip said. "But I still want _my_ name, Breakdown. Make a human name out of it."

"What?" Not for the first time, Breakdown wanted to slap some sense into him; this was no time to be demanding! "How am I supposed to do that?"

"I don't know. You're the expert on humans, not me."

Motomaster made a disgusted sound. "Breakdown, pick whatever names will help us go unnoticed. I'll get some food and travel passes while you're doing it. Dead End, get that map and find us somewhere to go."

Dead End unfolded the map they had found in the humans' Accord, studied it and then turned it the correct way around. "I suppose we should select the nearest major city," he said finally, sounding as though he had been asked to choose between deactivation by electrocution or explosive.

"Yes," Motormaster said tightly. "Pick something on the coast, so we'll be close to home. And do it in the next ten seconds or I'll fill the sink with water and hold your head under it until you learn to make decisions without whining about them."

Breakdown winced inwardly. He might have suggested finding a new location himself, but he was too unnerved by then and he knew why Motormaster had asked Dead End instead of him. Although Breakdown was the scout, Dead End had had the best radar, so he had often been ordered to scan ahead when they drove out. Old habits died hard.

"Very well," Dead End sounded resigned. "San Francisco."

Motormaster grunted an acknowledgement. "Fine. Drag Strip, you're with me." He turned and strode out.

 _But that's a new habit,_ Breakdown thought. Previously, Motormaster had left their room by himself; now, with their new vulnerability very much in evidence and the possibility that human law enforcement had been alerted to them, it was best not to be alone.

Once the door had closed behind Drag Strip, he looked down in mild surprise that Wildrider was so quiet, only to realize that Wildrider had fallen asleep. Dark hair that looked reddish where the light struck it was still slightly damp from the washracks, and the darker shadow of a bruise spread across Wildrider's cheekbone.

Dead End folded the map neatly and put it away, then took Breakdown's damp towels away to hang them up on the rails that ran around the washrack's walls. Breakdown could imagine him arranging them so that they were all perfectly straight. He lay down as well. After the tense confrontations of the day, it felt good to have the room quiet and peaceful and all to themselves. Breakdown liked the company of his teammates – well, all except Motormaster – but he enjoyed his own space and some time to himself as well.

He tried not to think of his quarters back in the Decepticon base, his private little room with his maps and posters on the walls. He tried even harder not to think about Soundwave sneaking in there to install hidden cameras, or Soundwave's nasty little midgets pawing through his belongings.

Dead End came back in, gave him a long thoughtful look and pulled the suitcase out from beneath the bed. "I think I saw some human grooming equipment in here," he said as he opened it. "Ah, yes." He took out a zippered case and opened it, studying the contents critically before he selected a brush.

Breakdown had used those on the treads and wheel-wells of the tires he no longer had, so he automatically extended a leg. Dead End took the brush to his head instead, carefully stroking the bristles through his hair and smoothing it back from his forehead. "There's something we can apply to that injury too," he said when he had finished, and took a small box labeled "Band-Aid" out of the case.

Breakdown watched curiously as he extracted a narrow strip of material and peeled off a layer of it. "Hold still," he said, and pressed it down flat across the cut on Breakdown's forehead. Breakdown tried to see it but his eyes wouldn't rotate that far upward.

Dead End drew back, eyes narrowing in concentration as he studied his handiwork. "Hmm… no, that's not quite straight. I'd better take it off and reapply it."

"Nnnnno, that's all right." There was some kind of adhesive holding the strip in place, and he had a feeling that pulling it off wouldn't be easy. He supposed the strips were skin-colored so that they would go unnoticed from a distance, making injured humans look less like easy targets.

"Oh, very well." Dead End stuck another piece across the cut on Breakdown's hand, though it took him a good two minutes to position it accurately and Breakdown had to suppress an urge to call him Hook. "There," he said.

"Thanks," Breakdown said, but he felt worried, because the sound of their voices hadn't brought Wildrider back online. "Do you think we should wake him up?" he said uneasily. "He might have a percussion."

Dead End shook Wildrider's shoulder and, when he yawned and stirred, told him to find a movie for them to watch. Wildrider grumbled that he wanted to sleep, but he was soon flicking through channels while Dead End continued looking through the contents of the case.

"Is this for hair too?" he said, holding up another brush with short bristles embedded in it. "It's very small."

"Maybe it's for eyebrows," Breakdown said. "They're small too."

"And this?" Dead End took out a shorter plastic implement with a wide head. Light reflected off it as he turned it in his hand, and when Breakdown looked more closely he saw overlapping metal blades set in the head, but he had no idea what they did. Dead End held it up before his eyes and squinted at it.

"There are little hairs in it," he said thoughtfully, then took Breakdown's arm and stroked the implement along it. Breakdown felt nothing except a slight friction, but when he looked down at his arm he let out a shocked squeak that took Wildrider's attention away from the television set.

"What is it?" Dead End said. "Did that hurt?"

"No, but now I have a bare patch on one arm! I'm assimilatrical. People will stare at me."

Dead End sighed. "Well, I doubt the hair can be put back, so why don't I just do your other arm as well?" He held a hand out.

Mollified, Breakdown gave him the other arm. "All right, just make them identical."

"Guys, look!" Wildrider said and gestured at the television with the remote control. "It's a commercial with that brush thingy."

Breakdown watched until the commercial was over, while Dead End looked in the case again and took out a small tube. "This isn't the product advertised and may not make our teeth their whitest, but it'll have to do. And Breakdown, now that I've finished with your maintenance, do try to find some human names for us before Motormaster gets back." He sat down on Breakdown's other side, _tsk_ ing in disapproval at the untidiness of Wildrider's hair before trying to restore it to a semblance of order.

"How am I supposed to make a human name out of 'Drag Strip'?" Breakdown said without much interest. He liked the idea of coming up with human designations that would allow them to pass unnoticed, but he wasn't as keen on Drag Strip placing restrictions on the process.

For all Dead End's indifference and chronic depression, he did tend to respond better to requests for help than to orders and insults. "Make an anagram out of it," he said. "Mix up the letters and put them back together to make a convincing human name."

Intrigued, Breakdown got up and retrieved the pen they had taken from the humans' car. He found a scrap of paper as well, then sat down on the bed and began to scribble. One thing he did like about being human, though he was careful not to mention it where Motormaster could hear, was that everything was adjusted to their new size.

"I did your name," he said happily. "Dan Deed. How does that sound?"

There was a pause. "I'll try to remember it," Dead End said finally.

Breakdown supposed that was the best response he could get; at least Dead End hadn't grumbled or pointed out anything wrong with the name or demanded another one. He tried out a few more combinations. "Mine is Bad Kowen. I mean Brad Kowen. The best I can get for Motormaster is Tomas Morter."

"What about High-Maintenance in Yellow? Or no longer in yellow, as it were."

'Drag Strip,' as Breakdown was discovering, wasn't easy to turn into a human name. He scratched valiantly at the paper, turned it over and worked on the other side. "Sid R. Pragt," he said finally. "It's the best I can do."

"It sounds like Starscream with a glitch in his vocalizer," was Wildrider's opinion. "What about my name?"

"Um." Breakdown carefully tore the paper into tiny scraps that no one would be able to piece back together. "Wil Drider."

"What?" Wildrider's eyes opened all the way. "That's the same as my real name! It's not even mixed up like everyone else's."

Breakdown shrugged. "You try monogramming 'Wildrider' and see how far you get."

"Fine. I'll just pick my own human name." Wildrider frowned, considering. "Like… Melanie."

 _I knew there'd be some damage from him being hit in the head._ "Wildrider," Breakdown said, "are you sure you want to call yourself that? Melanie _died_ at the end of that film."

"Everyone dies in the end eventually," Dead End informed them. "And rather untidily, if they're human."


	8. Sticker Shock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 8! Dead End returns to brighten your day. You're probably feeling better already.

**Chapter 8 : Sticker Shock**

Dead End hated riding the bus.

Granted, he'd only ridden on two in the entire sum of his existence, but he felt quite certain no other mode of transportation could possibly be as loathsome. Riding on a bus meant being crammed in shoulder-to-shoulder with the very dregs of humanity – most of whom appeared unfamiliar with the concept of bathing – for hours on end. It was crowded. It reeked.

But that wasn't the worst part. No, the worst part was knowing that his beautiful alt mode would have transported him to his destination with far more speed, grace, and style than any human could ever hope to achieve. Staring out the window and watching the world slip sluggishly by only served to remind him of what he had lost, made him long to feel the wind gusting past his chassis as the road unrolled beneath his tires like a smooth, endless ribbon of asphalt.

Venting a sigh, he turned away from the window.

"Do you want to switch?" Breakdown asked, his vocalizer barely rising above a whisper. Breakdown was sitting in the seat next to him, on the aisle, and from his hunched shoulders and the furtive glances he kept casting at the human passengers around them, Dead End knew he hadn't made the offer for _his_ benefit.

He nodded anyway. It didn't matter to him where he sat or who stared at him. The bandage on Breakdown's forehead was an uncomfortable reminder of how much worse things could have been.

He slid across the seat as Breakdown clambered over him to claim his spot by the window. The human sitting across the aisle eyed them, and Dead End rewarded him with a thousand-mile stare. The human looked away.

Smirking faintly, he glanced back at Motormaster, who was seated directly behind the human and across from Wildrider and Drag Strip in a position where he could keep an optic on all four of them. Motormaster's expression was distant, unreadable. Dead End faced forward again.

Behind him, he could hear Wildrider and Drag Strip whispering to each other, but he didn't bother trying to listen in. Wildrider would be complaining that it was too quiet, or Drag Strip griping that his feet hurt – nothing Dead End cared to hear about.

He pondered attempting to recharge, but the thought held little appeal. He almost regretted giving up the window and the pitiful diversion it offered. He longed for something to read.

Instead he looked around again, noting with distaste the abundance of human refuse littering the floor of the bus – discarded food wrappers, crumpled bits of foil, a thick sheaf of folded paper –

Dead End frowned, noting the lines of tiny black print covering the last. Leaning down, he picked it up gingerly between his thumb and forefinger and unfolded it. The words _San Francisco Chronicle_ were printed across the top in bold gothic letters.

It didn't look anything like a datapad, or even like the human books he'd seen in the past, but he knew the word _chronicle_ meant "record" or "history." Lacking anything better to do, he began to read.

The first handful of pages held little of interest to him. Most of the stories – the entire record appeared to be a collection of short stories on various topics – focused on human concerns; their politics, their economy, and so forth. The stories that described the impact of various ecological disasters were somewhat amusing though, so he kept reading.

"What is that?" Breakdown asked, belatedly noticing what Dead End was doing.

"A human chronicle," he replied absently, turning the page.

"Oh," Breakdown said, sitting up a little straighter. "Can I read it too?"

Dead End responded by extending his arm toward Breakdown's half of the seat, holding the unfolded paper so that it was positioned roughly between them. Breakdown shifted a little closer, leaning against him so that he could read over his shoulder.

The next section was entitled _Sports_ , and they bypassed it after a cursory glance by mutual agreement. _Business_ was equally incomprehensible. The section called _Food_ was intriguing, but confusing – humans, it seemed, were not content to settle for a single form of fuel in a handful of different grades. The sheer variety of options available was frankly daunting.

He glanced over at Breakdown, intending to ask his opinion on the subject, and discovered that Breakdown had fallen into recharge, his head pillowed on Dead End's shoulder. Dead End smiled faintly, reaching up to brush a strand of hair off of Breakdown's forehead.

The following section was called _Living_. "Surely it couldn't be that easy," he muttered.

It wasn't, not really – the section didn't contain anything resembling written instructions on how to live as a human – but it was informative nonetheless. He eagerly devoured the subsection on human fashion, and as he read it began to dawn on him that there were some minor but important details that had escaped their attention.

He turned to the next section in a much darker mood, but what he found there raised his spirits considerably – pages and pages of advertisements for jobs, living quarters, and items for sale – including computers. It was precisely the sort of information they needed, and he'd stumbled upon it purely by chance.

He debated waking Breakdown to share his discovery, but after recalling how long it had taken him to fall into recharge last night, Dead End decided to leave him be.

He turned the page and resumed reading.

* * *

"Right," Motormaster said as they stretched the kinks out of their servos after the long bus ride. "First things first – we need a computer. Breakdown, where do we go to get one?"

Breakdown looked at Dead End, who handed over the human record he'd found, folded to the page where they'd found the advertisement for a place that sold computers. "This place has them," he said. "We should probably call them first."

Motormaster scowled. "Why not just go there?"

"It's not nearby," Dead End said. "We'd have to pay for transportation. Better to find out how much it will cost us before we squander our funds getting there."

Motormaster's frown deepened, but he couldn't argue with that logic. He looked at Breakdown. "Call them," he said, relinquishing a handful of coins.

Breakdown took the money and moved off to the bank of pay phones lining the far wall. When he returned several minutes later, Dead End noted he was several shades paler than before.

"Well?" Motormaster said. "How much are they?"

"Um…" Breakdown said, "How much do we have again?"

"Eight hundred dollars."

"We're…gonna need a little more," Breakdown said in a small voice.

Motormaster scowled. "How much more?"

Breakdown's lips moved but no sound came out. The fuel line in Motormaster's forehead began to throb. " _How much?_ " he demanded.

Breakdown fidgeted, avoiding Motormaster's optics. Motormaster surged forward with a growl, grabbing him by the shoulders and hoisting him clear off the ground, his feet dangling nearly a foot off the floor. Breakdown flinched, turning his helm to the side and squeezing his eyes shut.

"Fffff-," he stammered.

Dead End raised an eyebrow. "Four or five hundred more?"

Breakdown shook his helm miserably, waving a hand in the air.

"Maybe if you wrote it down," Wildrider suggested. "Or wait – charades! First syllable sounds like..?" Motormaster aimed a kick at him while still holding Breakdown aloft, and Wildrider jumped aside with a startled yelp.

Breakdown looked at him, his optics pleading. Dead End sighed, rifling through his pockets for a piece of paper. Edging warily closer to Motormaster, he thrust it into Breakdown's waiting hand. On the opposite side of him, Drag Strip fished out a pen and did likewise.

Smoothing out the scrap of paper against Motormaster's chest and using it as a surface to write on, Breakdown scribbled down a figure. Dead End took the paper from him and studied it.

"Ah," he said.

"What?" Motormaster demanded, still glaring at Breakdown. "How much is it?"

"Five thousand dollars."

Dropping Breakdown, Motormaster rounded on him, grabbing Dead End's wrist and twisting it as he tore the scrap of paper out of his hand. He stared at it for a long moment, then crumpled it in his fist.

Dead End's expression didn't change. "It seems we'll be staying a bit longer than expected."

There was a moment of tense silence, and then Motormaster released him, turning away in disgust.

"So now what?" Drag Strip asked.

"Jobs," Motormaster said through gritted denta. "We find jobs."

"Not just yet," Dead End said.

Motormaster turned to face him. "What do you mean, _not yet?_ "

"We need better clothes. According to this," he said, holding up the paper, "humans are very particular about clothing. When seeking employment, one must make the right impression. Clothing does that. It tells the other humans what you are."

"What does our clothing say we are?" Breakdown asked.

"Crazy," he replied.

* * *

Referring once more to his chronicle, Dead End located the address of what the humans called a "thrift" shop within walking distance. After crossing the threshold they simply stood and stared, daunted by the sheer variety of items to choose from.

"We only get what we need to find jobs," Motormaster said, breaking the silence. "Dead End?"

He stepped forward and scanned the racks with a critical optic, finally pulling out a pair of pants made of some dark, heavy material and holding them up to himself. He nodded a moment later and folded them over his arm. Next he selected a large upper covering, one made out of soft grey fabric and sporting a hood. He handed it to Motormaster, who eyed it dubiously.

Taking that as their cue, Drag Strip and Wildrider practically attacked the racks, perusing the vast assortment of human clothing. Breakdown did the same, albeit more timidly.

"Can I get this?" Breakdown asked him quietly as Dead End crouched down to examine the human footwear lined up on the floor beneath the racks of clothing. Looking up, he saw that Breakdown had picked out a shirt patterned with large blotches of brown, green, and grey.

"Only if you plan on joining the human military," he said. "It won't work in a city anyway."

"Oh," Breakdown said, looking crestfallen.

Dead End straightened, sifting through the rack and coming up with a smaller version of the shirt he'd found for Motormaster, this one a vibrant blue reminiscent of Breakdown's former color scheme. "What about this one?" he said. "It has a hood."

Breakdown's expression brightened. "Thanks," he whispered, ducking his helm. His hand brushed against Dead End's in a shy, lingering touch as he accepted the garment.

"Sheesh, get a berth, you two," Drag Strip said, pausing in his assault on the clothing rack to smirk at them.

Breakdown snatched his hand away, his face flushing. Dead End glared at Drag Strip. "Those shoes of yours are only worn by females, you know."

Wildrider laughed. Motormaster rolled his optics. Drag Strip scowled. "I'm still taller than you now," he said.  
Dead End smiled sweetly, reaching up to pull his human visor down over his optics. As Drag Strip snorted and turned back to the racks, Dead End looked to Motormaster, nodding at his lower covering. "That's only worn by females too," he said.

"Females get all the good stuff," Drag Strip muttered.

Quickly scanning the rack, Dead End pulled out another set of leg coverings, ones that looked large enough to fit Motormaster's massive frame. "Try this."

Motormaster snatched the pants out of his hand and turned away, grumbling.

"Hey!" Wildrider said. "Can I buy this?" He held up a black t-shirt decorated with the image of Optimus Prime. Drag Strip elbowed him in the side, looking pointedly in Motormaster's direction.

Motormaster turned, his optics narrowing dangerously. "Yeah. Get it so I can tear it apart."

"That would certainly be an efficient use of our limited funds," Dead End commented dryly. Motormaster glared at him, but he just shrugged.

In the end they settled on the two shirts he'd chosen for Motormaster and Breakdown, the pants he'd picked out for Motormaster and himself, and footwear for all of them except Wildrider, who had claimed the only suitable pair from the suitcase. Drag Strip found a pair of boots with heels and elevated soles that Dead End confirmed were not female-specific – hideously ugly, but not female-specific – and insisted on buying them, refusing to consider anything else.

A shelf displaying pre-packaged undergarments caught Dead End's attention as they headed toward the front of the shop to purchase the items they'd chosen. He added several of those to the pile as well.

"Are we done yet?" Motormaster demanded, his patience obviously wearing thin as the number of their selections continued to rise.

Dead End hummed thoughtfully, scanning each of them in turn, and then running his gaze once more across the racks. He wasn't certain Drag Strip's shirt was acceptable, but he was feeling vindictive enough to let it go. All of the others were accounted for.

He was about to turn back and say as much when he saw it.

He stepped forward, entranced. Wedged between two other garments was a shirt of rich, deep red, fashioned out of some delicate material that shimmered faintly in the light. He ran a finger across it. It was even softer than it looked.

He didn't actually _need_ to replace his upper garment; it was serviceable. But it was made of a stiff white fabric, coarse to the touch, and it didn't gleam like a well-polished chassis.

He plucked the shirt out of the rack, adding it to the pile in his arms. "We are now."

* * *

After leaving the shop with their purchases, Dead End proposed they return to the bus station where they could use the restrooms to change into their new garments. By then their human bodies were demanding more fuel, so they stopped at an eating establishment that sold something called "tacos," which Wildrider enjoyed and Drag Strip complained about.

"Look, it's falling out again! This is like drinking out of a cube with a hole in it."

"Shut up and refuel," Motormaster growled. "We've wasted half the day already. We need to find jobs."

"We need to find living quarters, is what we need," Dead End said.

Motormaster's optics narrowed. "So we'll find another motel."

"Economically unwise. We're going to have to remain in this city long enough to accumulate the funds to buy a computer. That won't happen overnight. We need somewhere to stay in the interim. A base of operations, as it were."

"A _temporary_ base of operations," Motormaster corrected him. "What's wrong with finding another motel? We can pay by the night."

"Exactly," Dead End replied. "Over an extended period, the cost becomes prohibitive." He pulled out the folded paper again. "There are advertisements in here for living quarters one can purchase for a monthly fee –"

Motormaster's taco crumbled in his hand. "Monthly?" he repeated, his voice low and dangerous.

"– that is considerably lower than the cost of thirty days in a motel, assuming the prices we've paid previously are comparable to what we'd pay here," Dead End persisted, ignoring the interruption.

"So it could be _weeks_ before we inform Megatron about what happened," Motormaster said. "Why don't we just reserve space in the Crypt while we're at it?"

"Already done."

Motormaster rose from his seat, throwing down the remains of his meal. Dead End met his furious gaze, his expression calm and resigned.

"We'll need a phone line too," Breakdown ventured.

"What?" Motormaster said, tearing his gaze away from Dead End to stare at him. So did everyone else, which made Breakdown shrink down in his seat.

"F-for the computer," Breakdown said in a small voice. "We'll need to connect to a phone line to contact the base."

That fuel line in Motormaster's forehead was throbbing again. His jaw worked as he sat back down. "Fine. Dead End – find us the cheapest accommodations available."

"I already have," he replied, opening the paper to the page he'd marked earlier. "This one," he said, pointing out the ad. "And it's nearby. We simply have to call and arrange to meet with the owner."

"Do we get our own rooms?" Drag Strip asked.

"Is there a TV?" Wildrider chimed in.

Motormaster kicked them both from under the table.

* * *

"…comes fully furnished, and it's available immediately," said the reedy human who'd agreed to show them the apartment. "You won't find a deal like that for what I'm asking anywhere else in town. If you don't believe me, ask around!"

"Mmmhmm," Dead End replied noncommittally as they stood in the entryway looking around. The human had introduced himself as Doug, the landlord, although he didn't seem very lordly in Dead End's opinion. His unctuous tone was reminiscent of Swindle's. "And why is that?"

"No reason. I just want to see the place rented out, that's all. It's not making me any money standing around empty. Check out this closet space!"

"Are those bullet holes?" Wildrider asked.

Doug laughed nervously. "I'll waive the damage deposit."

Dead End looked at Motormaster; Motormaster nodded. "We'll take it."

"Great!" Doug said. "So how will you be paying?"

"With this," Motormaster said, pulling a fistful of crumpled bills from his pocket.

"You're paying in cash..?" Doug looked startled, then gave them a weak grin. "You guys aren't drug dealers, are you?"

The Stunticons exchanged puzzled looks. "What are drug dealers?" Breakdown asked.

"Never mind," Doug replied. "Whose name is this going under? Actually, what are all your names?"

"Tomas Morter," Motormaster replied after a brief pause.

"Sid R. Pragt," Drag Strip said proudly.

"Dan Deed," Dead End said. He nodded toward Breakdown, who'd slunk behind him. "And that's Bad Krowen – I mean, Brad Kowen." _Great, now_ I'm _doing it,_ he thought.

"And I'm Melanie," Wildrider said. "Melanie Wildes."

The landlord blinked, staring at Wildrider with a bewildered expression. "Riiiiiight," he said. "And you guys are, uh…?"

"A team," Motormaster said. "We're a team."

"We're the best," said Drag Strip.

"We're busy," Dead End said. "Now, shoo."

"Stop looking at me!" Breakdown said.

"That's a _lot_ of bullet holes," Wildrider observed.

Doug shook his head. "Never mind; I don't wanna know. Just sign the lease and gimme the cash. You can move in right away."

* * *

Their new base of operations did indeed come equipped with furniture, which was shabbier than what they'd had in the two motels they'd stayed at, but better than nothing. The apartment could have used a thorough cleaning, in Dead End's opinion – apart from a large section of the floor nearest the wall with the bullet holes, everything in it was covered in a thin film of dust – but it appeared to have most of the necessities.

It _didn't_ have a television, much to Wildrider's disappointment, and Motormaster denied his request to get one, reminding them all not to get too comfortable – they wouldn't be staying long. Dead End agreed, opining that they'd be lucky to survive the month they'd paid for.

There were three bedrooms in total, roughly equal in size, each sparsely furnished with a storage compartment for clothing and a stripped, stained mattress. Unsurprisingly, Drag Strip wanted one to himself, but so did Motormaster, and _he_ backed up his claim with his fists. The other Stunticons raised no objections, mainly because none of them wanted to share a room with Motormaster.

"All right, all right!" Drag Strip howled, probably just to get Motormaster to stop twisting his arm like that. "But I'm not sharing with Dead End. Wildrider, you're with me."

Dead End smirked. "No argument here." Drag Strip's competitiveness was often insufferable, and Wildrider kicked in his sleep.

Once that was settled, they began making themselves at home. Motormaster disappeared into the room he'd staked out as his own. Wildrider complained that it was too quiet, again bemoaned their lack of a TV, and then got into a tussle with Drag Strip out of sheer boredom. Breakdown investigated the appliances in the room he'd identified as the kitchen while the other two rolled around on the floor, trading blows and insults.

Dead End seized the opportunity to make use of the washrack, which was cramped but functional. Their human bodies, he'd noted, tended to acquire an unpleasant aroma over the course of a day, and spending most of it on a bus in the company of some highly fragrant individuals hadn't helped.

Afterward he experimented with some of the grooming equipment he'd found in the suitcase yesterday, doing his best to get his hair to lie smooth and to remove the distasteful crop of spiky bristles that had sprouted along his jaw. When he was satisfied that he'd done all he could, he retrieved his neatly folded clothing and returned to the common room.

To his surprise, it was empty. He inclined his head toward the room Drag Strip and Wildrider had chosen, and heard them conversing in hushed whispers. Since neither of them were the sort to speak softly of their own volition, he concluded Motormaster must have ordered them into recharge.

The door to Motormaster's room was shut, and no sounds emanated from within, so he moved on to his own. Breakdown looked up from where he was seated on the bed with his arms wrapped around his knees, a relieved expression flashing across his face as Dead End entered. "Motormaster said we have to start looking for jobs in the morning," he said. "There's not much money left."

Dead End nodded, stowing his clothing in the top compartment of the storage unit. Breakdown had left his own strewn on the floor; he picked them up and put them away as well, then joined him on the bed.

Breakdown curled up against him, draping an arm across his chestplate and pressing as close as he was able, clearly craving the reassurance of physical contact. After a moment, he giggled. "Your face is smooth," he said.

"Yours isn't," he replied. "In the morning I'll show you how to fix that."

"Okay," Breakdown agreed. They lapsed into silence, listening to the soft sound of their ventilations filling the quiet room. Dead End felt the patches covering the wounds on Breakdown's forehead and hand against his skin, and tried not to think about how he'd gotten them. They were all so _fragile_ now.

"Do you think we'll ever get home again?" Breakdown asked.

Dead End lifted his gaze, meeting his troubled brown eyes. A ghost of a smile tugged at his lip components as he slid his arms around Breakdown's waist, gathering him close. "You should know better than to ask me that."

"Right," Breakdown said, snuggling into his embrace. "Never mind." To Dead End's satisfaction, this time he slipped into recharge almost immediately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case it wasn't apparent from the previous chapters, this fic is set in the late 1980s. That's why the computer is so expensive, and why many of the Stunticons' living expenses are significantly cheaper than they would be today.


	9. Full Throttle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 9! Drag Strip acquires the perfect clothes and conquers the world. Sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song referenced in this chapter is the Bloodhound Gang's "Bad Touch", an anachronism since it was released in 1999, but too funny to pass up. We recommend playing it when you first reach the lyrics. You'll see why.

**Chapter 9 : Full Throttle**

"So tell us," Starscream said. "How did you get your real frames back?"

Skywarp pushed his cube of high-grade across the table. "We want to hear all about it!"

Drag Strip smiled slightly as he accepted the proffered cube, noting as he did so the gleam of something more than interest in the Seekers' optics. "It wasn't easy," he said. "And of course Motormaster was utterly ineffective when it came to blending in with the organic vermin and thereby using them for our purposes."

He took a sip of the high-grade and flicked his glossa over his lips to catch an errant drop. Thundercracker's internal fans switched on.

"But I knew from the start what we had to do," he said.

Starscream leaned forward. "And that was…?"

"Hey, buddy, last stop!"

Drag Strip jolted out of his daydream, startled. The Seekers vanished and were replaced by dingy bus seats, litter on the floor and a human in the driver's seat just ahead, half-turned and staring at him.

"This is the last stop before the depot," the human said. "You wanna go back there or get out?"

Drag Strip stalked to the door. He hated buses as a mode of transportation – _slow, unmaneuverable slabs of slag!_ – and hated them even more because he had to put up with humans of all kinds inside. He wasn't as finicky as Dead End, but he liked keeping himself clean, and buses seemed to carry a disgusting amount of mud, used cups, chewing gum and discarded paper.

 _I can't wait till I can afford a car. Or better yet, be a car._

He climbed down the steps and the bus took off in a deep cough of diesel fumes. Drag Strip buttoned his blazer and headed for the job placement agency.

He was pleased about his clothes. Breakdown had discovered a small library near their apartment and he had found a book about what humans were expected to wear in the workforce (he liked that word; it implied some excitement on the job). Of course, without ID they couldn't check out the book, but Drag Strip had learned what clothes were appropriate – pants, not jeans, plus a jacket or blazer.

Motormaster had divided what little was left of their remaining money by five and doled out a share to each of them, to pay for transportation to possible jobs and any meals on the road. Drag Strip decided he could go without a little food to buy suitable clothes; the most important thing was getting a job fast – and first. So the next day he returned to the thrift store.

He saw it right away. The Perfect Blazer. The one that was made for him. The dazzlingly bright one in a yellow that made him feel warm just to look at it. It fitted him too, and Drag Strip took that as a sign that he was on the right track. He bought a pair of pants as well, but keeping the splendor of his blazer in mind, went for something in a subdued white with just a hint of gold embroidery running down each leg from hip to ankle, like a human version of racing stripes.

Delighted with the new additions to his wardrobe, he wore them when he went job-hunting over the next two days, but he didn't have much luck. Most places with job openings wanted employees with qualifications or experience, and Drag Strip had experience at only two things: racing and fighting. Or they asked for ID, and he didn't have any. And at four offices, the receptionists told him the job openings had already been filled.

"Well, what are they waiting for then?" he said, indicating a row of candidates sitting in chairs nearby and looking drab in their suits of black, grey and navy blue. When the receptionist hesitated, clearly not wanting to break the bad news to them, he addressed the other candidates.

"The position's been filled. You should all go home." _And maybe dress a little better too,_ he thought as he left.

None of the other Stunticons had jobs yet, but that didn't make Drag Strip feel any better. He had to be the first to make money. The thought of being beaten to that by anyone else was galling. He even tried leaving their apartment very early so that he could be first in line at any place which sported a Help Wanted sign, but that didn't seem to work either.

Nor did the job placement agency. Drag Strip waited nearly two hours for the first available consultant, growing more and more impatient, only to have the consultant find fault with everything in his application. "If you didn't go to high school, Mr. Pragt, you'll need a GED," she said. "Also, you cannot have been born in 1985. You need to fill this out correctly." She hesitated. "And do you have any other clothes?"

Drag Strip strode out of the building, wishing he could slam the automatic door behind him. To put the final touch on his frustration, the last bus had gone and he didn't have enough money for a cab.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and started walking, wondering what he was going to do. _When am I supposed to have been born? What the frag is a GED?_ Breakdown had talked about fake identification, but he didn't know how to make or buy any. For the first time Drag Strip felt disheartened. He had tried his hardest and was getting nowhere.

The sky was growing darker, and Drag Strip knew it would take him at least another two hours to get home. _Will there be any dinner left for me?_ He was used to being hungry by then and had learned to dismiss the sensation, but the thought of starving all night was harder to ignore. He plodded on grimly, hoping his platform boots wouldn't be as vicious on his feet as his high heels had been.

Other humans bustled about the streets like ants but they hardly even registered on Drag Strip's awareness. He did notice the ones who drove, though, noticed and resented them. _It isn't fair. We're struggling just to make enough money to contact the base and we don't even have a car, let alone our alt-modes._

And the humans didn't notice _him_ , which made it worse. He wasn't just a Decepticon, he was a Stunticon, a future inheritor and ruler of the planet. The humans should have been unable to take their eyes off him.

Music drifted from the open door of a club just ahead, while a hot dog stand on the corner gave off smells that made Drag Strip's mouth water. He set his teeth and kept walking, trying not to look at the food, and his gaze went to the sign just above the club.

He stopped in his tracks, halting so abruptly that a human walking behind bumped into him. Drag Strip shook himself absently to get rid of any traces of the contact, not even bothering to look. He didn't think he could have glanced away from that sign if Optimus Prime had driven up the road.

It said, "THE DRAG STRIP".

 _A human place named after me!_ The music came from within the open club, but when Drag Strip peered inside, it was too dark to make out anything but a large crowd of people. Others shifted and milled about near the entrance. Drag Strip threw his shoulders back, hooked his thumbs into his pockets and walked in.

He pushed his way past the humans, for once too intrigued to be annoyed that they didn't automatically draw aside at his approach. The club was large but crammed with humans, most at tables on the floor, though some stood around a counter at one end of the room. _Collecting their rations,_ Drag Strip realized when he noticed another human behind the counter handing out containers of liquid fuel.

As he took a step in that direction, the music faded. The lights dimmed almost to dark. Surprised and a little nervous – not that he would ever have shown it – Drag Strip stayed still and waited, wondering what was going on. _And why is this place named after me? It doesn't seem to have anything to do with racing._

A spotlight came on, illuminating a stage brightly and the music started up again, louder than before. A police officer strode on to the stage.

Drag Strip took a step back in horror. All he could remember was what Breakdown had told them, that if they kept robbing people, human law enforcement would find them. Was the name of the club just a trick, to lure him in there? He glanced at the open door, wondering if he should run immediately or first cause some kind of diversion to keep the police occupied while he fled.

No one seemed to be looking at him, though; the crowd's attention was fixed on the police officer. To Drag Strip's surprise, the man began to peel off his uniform jacket. He whirled it around his head a few times and flung it into the crowd.

A woman caught it and screamed for no reason that Drag Strip could see. _Maybe a button hit her in the eye._ But other customers were screaming as well, he noticed, or cheering just as loudly. The police officer wiggled his body, turned and repeated the bizarre movement.

None of the cops Drag Strip had engaged on the roads had ever done that, but then again, he couldn't remember any of them taking their clothes off either. _Is this what human law enforcement personnel do when they're off duty?_ he wondered as the police officer whirled around a pole set in the middle of the stage. _How weird! I wish the others were here, they'll never believe this._

The police officer was soon down to his pants, which he apparently tore off. Drag Strip sneered. _Well, I guess people like that have enough money to buy a different pair of pants every day._ He watched in growing disdain as the cop strutted about the stage a little longer and then leaped down on to a step that put him a little closer to the crowd.

People surged forward, hooting and cheering, the spotlight tracking the movement. Curious despite himself, Drag Strip sidled closer to see what they were doing, trying to stay as inconspicuous as possible.

His mouth dropped open. They were stuffing money into the cop's underwear and the tops of his boots, which now sported a fringe of folded banknotes. _What the… why are they…_

The cop moved along the rows of tables and tipped his cap to a laughing knot of women – _he must've forgotten to take that off,_ Drag Strip thought, still half in shock. Abruptly a new song started up on the huge speakers and another human sauntered out on to the stage. This time it was a cowboy with a huge Stetson hat and high-heeled boots that Drag Strip instantly wanted. The cowboy pivoted on one heel, pulling off his vest as he did so.

_So you just have to take off your clothes and dance? I could do that. Slag, I could do that better than—_

The cowboy pivoted again, and there was a faint but definite _snap_ that Drag Strip heard even over the music as the heel of one tall boot broke off and skittered across the stage. The cowboy, who had been turning as it happened, crashed down in an ungainly sprawl. His hat fell off.

There were a few startled giggles but the crowd was no longer cheering. When the cowboy struggled to a sitting position, grimacing and gripping one leg tightly, Drag Strip guessed why. In moments the music stopped. A woman appeared from the side of the stage and went to the cowboy, kneeling beside him and looking him over before she rose again.

"We're sorry about that, folks," she called out. "It'll just be a moment." Another man hurried to the stage and began to help the cowboy off of it.

 _Just a moment._ Drag Strip pushed his way past the tables in as much time and sprang up on to the stage. He heard a few exclamations and shouts of "Hey, who's that?" but ignored them as he turned to face the crowd. The spotlight shone on him, dazzling.

"Start the music again!" he shouted.

Nothing happened. The crowd was oddly hushed as they stared at him and in that instant he knew how Breakdown might have felt under such scrutiny. It was one thing to have humans gaze in awe and admiration. It was another to be the subject of the puzzled, confused looks given to something that was unwanted and out of place.

Then, from the edge of his peripheral vision, he saw the woman on stage give a slight nod.

 _"Haha,"_ a voice said from the speakers.

 _Is someone laughing at me?_ But then he realized it was part of the song, which seemed to begin with someone speaking.

 _"Well now, we call this the act of mating."_ Oh, so _that_ was what all this was about. _Not a problem._ He'd been irresistible as a Stunticon and he could be no less so as a human. From the corner of an optic he saw the woman slipping off the stage.

 _"But there are several other very important differences between human beings and animals that you should know about."_ And the drumbeat began.

Drag Strip rode it. He remembered the way the police officer had moved and did the same, but kept his hands in the pockets of his blazer as he swiveled his hips and rolled his shoulders. He was no longer tired, not with the spotlight on him, and his feet seemed to move independently of the rest of his body as he slid to the center of the stage. One hand shot out with his usual speed and grabbed the metal pole. He all but flew around it.

 _"I'd appreciate your input,"_ the song whispered and people in the crowd began to clap. _Ah yes. That's more like it._

Drag Strip spun on his heel just as the cowboy had done – _only better!_ – and ended up with his back to the crowd. He turned his head to one side so he could be sure they were still looking at him, now with growing fascination, as he nudged his blazer off in a series of rhythmic little shrugs. His pelvic unit moved in time to them.

When the blazer finally fell he hooked it with one finger and whirled it around his head. His bus fare flew out of the pockets and disappeared into the crowd, but he was enjoying himself too much to care. The people's attention was riveted on him and the music was like a road unrolling before him at delicious speed. For the first time since he had become a human he felt himself smile as he began to unbutton his shirt.

A woman close to the stage cheered, so Drag Strip bent his knees, sinking down as he continued to dance, and turned sideways as he gave her a broad grin. Any human who appreciated his physical perfection and liked his clothes was all right by him. He straightened up with the coiled energy of a spring being released and whipped the shirt off with a laugh.

People hooted and whistled, raising their hands to clap.

He pulled his belt off just as a man sitting at another table raised a glass to him, smiling widely. Drag Strip caught the tip of the belt in one hand and whacked the buckle against the stage so hard that he felt the vibration of the blow travel up his arm. The man looked as though he had choked on his drink, and everyone around him burst into applause.

_"Hieroglyphics, let me be Pacific, I want to be down in your South Seas…"_

Drag Strip twisted, then kicked high, getting the sole of one boot against the pole at just the right height for him to unzip it in a single smooth motion. It was off in the next moment and he repeated the process for the other boot.

_"So if I capsize on your thighs' high tide, B-5, you sunk my battleship…"_

He touched the zipper on his pants and people _shrieked._ "Off!" They nearly drowned out the music. "Off!"

Drag Strip raised his optic ridges as though considering the request; _maybe I will and maybe I won't._ But he was having far too much fun to stop. _Bet you lot don't even remember that stupid police officer now, do you?_

Trailing the tip of his tongue along his lower lip, he sank to one knee just so that he could see beyond the spotlight's glare. The eyes fixed on him and faces entranced, people yelling for more from him… it was better than a gulp of high-grade. Rising slowly, as sinuously as he could, he slid the zipper down and gave a sharp hard writhe of his hips.

If his skin had not been sweat-slick from the dancing and the excitement, it might not have worked, but the pants slid down. Screams filled the air.

Drag Strip stepped out of his pants and spun around so the crowd could admire him from the back, then raised his arms to his head, burying his fingers in his hair. _Got to do it better than the cop… and more,_ he thought as he turned again.

His hands dropped to his underpants and slid them off.

There was a moment of stunned silence. Then the noise nearly deafened him.

* * *

"Have a seat," the manager said, closing the door of her office.

Drag Strip sat down. He had barely had enough time to put his pants back on – and he had remembered too late that without underpants or boots, where were the grateful and awestruck customers supposed to stuff money? But they had shoved plenty of banknotes into his hands nevertheless, and then two much larger men had showed up to tell him that the manager wanted to see him.

Drag Strip might have balked, but by then the next act was starting, so he went with them. One of the men carried the rest of his clothes into the manager's office, but he didn't trust anyone else to hold his money.

The manager was the woman who had spoken on stage after the cowboy's serendipitous and amusing accident, and now she sat down on the other side of a desk. "My name is Gaby Ortega."

"I'm Drag—" He stopped just in time. "Sid R. Pragt."

"Good to meet you, Mr. Pragt. Have you performed before?"

"No." Drag Strip grinned. "First time I ever did that." _And I beat all the human dancers at it!_ The crowd certainly hadn't given the police officer a standing ovation.

"Well, we'd be interested in seeing you again." She smiled. "How would that work for you?"

Drag Strip couldn't believe it for a moment. He would get to do that again, to see new crowds cheering for him and begging for more? _Well, certainly, why not? I was the hit of the night, the star of the show._ And he would do even better next time. He was mentally planning what he would wear when he realized that Gaby Ortega was waiting for a reply.

"That would work fine," he said.

"That's great!" She produced some papers, and Drag Strip groaned inwardly; why did every human job have to involve filling out paperwork? "Oh, and there's just one more thing. You'll need to… tidy up a little before the next show."

Drag Strip frowned. He wasn't as neat as Dead End, but he was by no means a slob. "Tidy up?"

"Yes, you know." She waved a hand at him. "Wax."

"Wax? I don't have plat—" Primus, what was _wrong_ with him? He'd nearly given himself away again.

Gaby looked at him for a long considering moment before fishing in a drawer of her desk. "Here." She handed him a business card. "Go to this salon, tell them I sent you and ask for the full package, okay?"

Drag Strip took it, shrugging his assent. He had no objections to being pampered a little – _about time, really, after all the horrible experiences I've had lately_ – though he was surprised to hear humans used wax too. _Must tell Dead End after I get it done, he'll be so jealous._

And after he had bought himself a meal he went home in a cab, the pockets of his yellow blazer stuffed with money. Perhaps being human wasn't so bad after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The computer Breakdown needs is the [Compaq Portable III](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Compaq_Portable_III), a precursor to the modern laptop. Top-of-the-line in 1987, it had 640kB of RAM, a 20 MB hard drive, and weighed about twenty pounds.


	10. Keep on Truckin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 10! Motormaster hits the road... and the road hits back.

**Chapter 10 : Keep on Truckin'**

Motormaster didn't like it when his subordinates were late to get home.

Punctuality in and of itself wasn't important to him unless they were on a mission, but in their new human forms, he had no idea what might be happening when one of the team failed to show up. Without comms, they had no way to tell him whether they were just delayed by traffic (and wasn't that an irony?) or caught by law enforcement. There were public phones, of course, but the Stunticons couldn't afford the installation fees for a phone in their apartment.

Now, as it grew dark and Drag Strip still hadn't returned to their temporary base of operations, Motormaster sat in a chair pushed away from the table and tried to decide what to do. _Other than slagging some sense into Drag Strip when he finally shows up, that is._ He tried not to think of the possibility of Drag Strip not doing so.

No matter how badly his subordinates fragged up, or how brutal their punishments were, there was an unspoken understanding in the team that if they were ever in real trouble, one comm to him was all they needed. Once he had been in a conference with Megatron when a distress signal had come in, and Megatron had had to wait until he was done. Which didn't please _him_ , but that consequence was tolerable compared to the alternative. Nothing mattered as much to Motormaster as keeping his team together and intact (well, intact apart from whatever damage he inflicted on them).

So he sat and waited, not sure of the time because they still had no chronometer. The rest of the team had picked up on his mood fast and were staying well out of range, being as quiet as possible. From time to time Wildrider would glance at him or the door, but Motormaster could tell that the other two were slapping a wheel clamp on anything he might have said. Which was a good thing, because he didn't know how long—

"Hey, open up," Drag Strip called from outside.

Motormaster shot a look at the other three and after a moment Breakdown got up and opened the door. Drag Strip sauntered in, grinning from audial to audial. He started to speak and then made eye contact with Motormaster.

The click of the door closing sounded very loud in the sudden silence. So did Breakdown's footsteps as he got out of the blast radius.

Motormaster rose, the legs of his chair scraping back. Drag Strip stood where he was, looking as though he had been welded to the floor.

"Where have you been?" Motormaster said in an almost conversational tone. He came around the table in a quiet deliberate tread.

"I—" was all Drag Strip had time to say before Motormaster's hand shot out and clamped down on his shoulder. One hard twist flung him down into a chair and he gasped from the impact.

Before he could recover, Motormaster grabbed a handful of yellow collar and twisted it tight around Drag Strip's neck. He pulled upwards at the same time, yanking Drag Strip's chin at an angle and forcing terrified hazel eyes to meet his own stare. Drag Strip's hands flew to his throat. Motormaster tightened the makeshift garotte even harder until Drag Strip stopped fighting, then let it relax a fraction.

"Well?" he said.

"Got – a – job," Drag Strip croaked.

That was unexpected. Motormaster loosened his grip just a little more.

"What kind of job?" he said.

"Kind that… pays." Somehow, Drag Strip's defiance always seemed to surface, even when he was choking for air. "Money…" He shoved a hand into his blazer and came up with a bunch of banknotes.

Motormaster let him go entirely. The others pressed in for a closer look as Motormaster smoothed out the notes and began to make a pile of them. "How'd you get this?" he said, still looking narrowly at Drag Strip. "Most places close at the end of the day."

"Yeah, well, some don't," Drag Strip said, smoothing his collar back into place as best he could before rubbing at the marks on his neck. "There's a club downtown named after me, so I went in there and danced and they gave me this."

 _Nearly a hundred dollars._ Motormaster didn't know what he found more implausible – that someone had named an establishment after Drag Strip (humans were dumb but not _that_ sycophantic) or that they had paid him so much to dance. _Is he that good a dancer?_ Motormaster sniffed hard but he couldn't smell any high-grade fumes lingering in Drag Strip's vicinity.

"That doesn't make any sense." Evidently Breakdown found Drag Strip's claims as unbelievable as he did. "You have to pay to go dance in a club – they don't pay you."

Drag Strip got that cocky, I-know-something-you-don't look that never failed to irritate Motormaster. "They do if you take all your clothes off."

"You took your clothes off and got money?" Wildrider said. "Why didn't you have to return it when you put them back on again?"

Drag Strip looked at him for a blank moment, shook his head slightly and went on. "And they want me to come back! They love me. The manager said I was the best performer they'd ever had. She'd never seen anyone do it as spectacularly as I did."

"The spectacle part I can believe," Motormaster said. Now maybe they could afford for a phone line. Breakdown had been adamant that they needed one for the computer, to connect to the satellite network that would transmit their communication signals to the Decepticon base. "Where's the rest of it?"

"Rest of it?" Drag Strip said innocently.

Motormaster grabbed his wrist. He was becoming more accustomed to what he could do with his human body – how much pressure to apply to scare, to hurt and to _break_ , in that order. His fingers clamped down like a vise.

"Something wrong with your audials?" he said. "Yeah. The rest of it."

Slowly Drag Strip dropped his free hand to his right boot and drew out a smaller, folded wad of notes. He dropped them on the table, his face set in sullen lines.

Motormaster released him. He felt sure that Drag Strip had another cache somewhere on him – _and I could probably find it, since we don't have subspace pockets any more_ – but he'd gotten enough for the phone line and a few other expenses, like their fuel for the immediate future. And Drag Strip had been reminded once again that his leader wasn't stupid.

"Good," he said, then peeled off three fives to hand to Dead End. "Go get us something to eat."

Wildrider sat down on the other side of the table, looking intrigued. "Hey, sunshine, if they pay people to dance and take their clothes off, could I do it?"

Motormaster was almost as surprised to hear sense from Wildrider as he had been to see Drag Strip's unexpected earnings. "Yeah, why not?" he said. _A little more like this and we could have a computer in a week's time. We could go back home before much longer!_ "Drag Strip, tell this club there's more where you came from."

Drag Strip tensed at once. "They don't need any other performers," he said. "And besides, who else could do it but me? Dead End would just stand up there on the stage looking miserable and polishing himself, Wildrider'd get distracted by something shiny and Breakdown couldn't cope with _one_ human staring at him, let alone a thousand."

Motormaster glared at him, aware that Drag Strip's answer came out of his usual unwillingness to share the glory with anyone else but also aware that his objections were true enough. None of the others were likely to enjoy dancing to entertain humans, drinking up the attention as though it were energon. Except perhaps for Wildrider, and he would either get distracted or blow something up just for the fun of it.

Dead End returned with food and Motormaster said nothing more as he ate. But that night he lay in bed with one arm bent beneath his head, unable to sleep. He was used to recharging alone, but not to the slow sinking feeling that he wasn't able to provide what his team needed. Somehow Drag Strip's success had underlined that fact.

Motormaster didn't really expect his other subordinates to find similar well-paying jobs. Breakdown would be most valuable when they got the computer and he was able to tap into the base's comm system; he was hopeless when it came to dealing with humans directly. Unless there were job openings for insane terrorists, Wildrider wasn't wanted in a human society. And while he required a little more of Dead End, serving as a liaison between them and the humans was also useful.

 _But what am_ I _doing? What_ can _I do?_

He forced himself to stop brooding and redoubled his efforts to find a job the next day. Thankfully Drag Strip's earnings meant a little extra money for more newspapers and even a cup of coffee, which Motormaster bought from a small deli nearby. He sat at the counter, going through the classifieds, and an ad leaped out at him.

 _"CaliTrans Services. Position available : Company Driver."_ Below it was a picture of a cab (no trailer, though he supposed there wasn't enough room in the tiny square of paper to show that). Motormaster studied the picture for a long moment, thinking of how it would feel to dominate the highways again, plowing through everything in his path.

No, he couldn't do that; to keep the job he'd have to take orders from some worthless human and obey the law. Still, it would be worth it just to see the open road before him again, to smell diesel fumes and feel eighteen wheels respond to his will. He tore the ad out of the paper.

"Looking for a job?" someone said.

Motormaster glanced up. The woman who worked behind the counter was wiping it down with a cloth, and she smiled at him.

He didn't know why she was asking and it didn't matter anyway; getting to the trucking company before anyone else applied for the job was the most important thing. So he walked out, ad in hand, and made straight for the address listed on it.

The company's regional base of operations was within walking distance of their apartment, but when he got off the elevator and showed the ad to the receptionist, she asked if he had an appointment. Motormaster shook his head.

"I can handle a truck better than any hu—driver you'll ever hire," he told her flatly. "So if you've got a superior, tell 'em to see me." He leaned against the counter and waited.

The receptionist got up. "May I have your name, please?"

 _What was that human name? Oh yes._ "Tomas Morter."

The receptionist went into a nearby room and shut the door behind her. That gave Motormaster a moment to think about actually operating such a truck—not just the wonderful sense of being behind a wheel again, feeling weight and power and speed at his command, but all the small details of driving that he had taken for granted in his alt-mode. When he'd thought of shifting gears, it had happened without further effort on his part, and he had never worried about collisions because he had always had a forcefield on his side.

None of that would apply in a human vehicle, but Motormaster decided he would cross that bridge when he came to it. He straightened up as the receptionist came back out.

"Mr MacCallum will see you now," she said, and held the door open for him.

 _That's a good start. No waste-of-time appointments._ Motormaster strode in to the room and studied the thin, pale little human behind the desk. _I'd have to take orders from this sliver of slag? He looks like he'd fall over if I vented on him. Oh well, it'll just be until we have enough money to contact the base._ The human rose and held out a hand, so Motormaster gave him the torn-off ad and sat down.

The human did the same after a moment. "Could I see your resume?" he said.

 _What's a resume?_ Motormaster wondered. He had assumed that whoever was in charge at the trucking company would tell him to drive a cab so that they could observe his performance and then hire him.

"Resume?" he said.

"Curriculum vitae?" The human looked expectant.

Motormaster could understand most Earth languages—he had come online with them already programmed into his databanks—but whatever the human had just said was a mystery to him. He decided it was best to explain why he was there, in simple clear terms that the human could understand.

"I'm applying for the job driving a truck," he said, unable to keep an edge of disdain out of his voice.

The human raised one optic ridge. "Do you have any references?"

 _References to what?_ None of that made sense, and this job interview wasn't going as Motormaster had pictured it at all. "What are references?"

The human studied him for a long moment. "Statements about your performance on the job from previous employers," he said finally.

 _Oh._ Motormaster longed to say that his previous "employer", if he could be described as such, had been Megatron, the Slag Maker, supreme commander of the Decepticons, and that any miserable humans should have been honored to have the leader of Megatron's elite gestalt working for them. Then he thought of security personnel swooping in from all sides and the Autobots running to the rescue.

"I haven't had any previous employers," he said.

The human's face wrinkled up a little, as though he smelled something strange. "Do you even have any experience at this kind of job?"

 _Yes, you disgusting little fragger, I do,_ Motormaster thought, but he was so relieved he could answer something in the affirmative that he managed to control his temper . "I have extensive experience with a Kenworth K100 Aerodyne tractor-trailer. Any kind of weather, any kind of traffic conditions. I got the job done."

"Really." The human didn't look as though he was ready to hand the keys over just yet. "What did you transport?"

Motormaster hesitated, since he could hardly say "energon". "Fuel."

"Fuel?" The human frowned and Motormaster had a sudden feeling he had said the wrong thing. "You transported fuel in a K100? What kind of fuel?"

 _Great._ Before he could think of what to say, the human went on. "I'm guessing you don't have a commercial driver's license either."

"No!" Motormaster's limited patience was at an end. "Just give me the fragging truck and I'll show you what I can do."

The human blinked rapidly and for the first time seemed to look properly cowed. "All right," he said. "Sure, Mr. Morter, we can do that." He got up.

Motormaster did the same, pleased that the nonsense was over with and he could finally get behind the wheel. _Have to be tough with them, otherwise they think they can frag around with you._ The human held the office door open for him and Motormaster all but swaggered out.

"The trucks are right outside," the human said. "This way, please." He led the way to the elevator and when they reached the lobby, he showed Motormaster to a side entrance and held the door open again, politely. "After you."

Motormaster stepped outside. The bright sunlight dazzled him for a moment, but he could still see the parking lot outside – a lot half-filled with cars, and not a truck in sight. _Where are—_

The door closed behind him.

Motormaster turned. The human was nowhere in sight, and he reached reflexively for a handle before he realized there was none—the door had never been intended to be opened from the outside.

He stood alone in the parking lot for a long blank moment, struggling to control the humiliation and fury boiling up within him. If he had heard laughter or mocking comments from inside he would have lost the fight and started smashing the door down (though he wasn't sure how, without a weapon). But after a drawn-out silence where nothing happened, he slowly turned on his heel and left the parking lot.

He memorized the address first, though, because when he got his real frame back, he planned to raze that building to the ground and drive repeatedly over the remains.

Not knowing what else to do, he started back home, though when he saw the deli he found himself heading in that direction instead. Anything to put off the moment when he would have to walk into their apartment and be asked how his job hunt had gone. He felt in his pocket as he headed for the entrance to the deli, hoping he would have enough for a coffee, but all he could find were two coins. _Well, that'd better be enough,_ he thought as he pushed open the door and strode in.

There was only one customer standing at the counter, a human wearing an odd, tight-fitting mask that covered his head but left his eyes and mouth exposed. He twisted around and Motormaster saw the barrel of a long gun point at him.

He stopped in his tracks, nearly knocking over a mop that had been left leaning against the counter. The gun was six feet away—he couldn't grab it and he couldn't charge without being shot.

 _I could use a forcefield right now,_ he thought.

"Don't move!" the man snapped. Motormaster flicked a look at the woman behind the counter, wondering if she was planning to do anything, but she was busy fumbling with the cash register. Blood trickled slowly down her face from an ugly cut that ran the length of her cheekbone.

The cash register made a _ching_ sound as it sprang open.

"Get it all in a bag, bitch!" The robber never looked away from Motormaster, evidently aware he was the greater threat.

 _Stupid little human,_ Motormaster thought without amusement, _you have no idea you're up against the leader of the Stunticons, the King of the Road. But you're about to find out._

He raised one hand slowly, palm outward to show that he wasn't carrying any weapons. "Take it easy," he said, and with his other hand – hanging unnoticed by his side – he flicked a coin sideways in a sharp snap of his fingers. The coin flew across the other half of the deli and clinked against the restroom door.

Instinctively the robber turned towards the sound. Motormaster grabbed the mop beside him and brought it up in one swift strike even as the robber realized he had been tricked. As he fired from the hip, the mop's head hit the gun's barrel with all of Motormaster's brutal strength behind it. The blow knocked the barrel upwards and the shotgun's blast went over Motormaster's head, shattering part of the ceiling.

Before the robber could fire again, Motormaster flung himself at the man's legs. He barely heard the shotgun roar again – his ears were still ringing from the first blast – but since he was at floor level it missed him again. In the next moment he crashed into the robber and they went down together.

Motormaster closed one fist around the shotgun barrel, ignoring the heat, and wrenched it out of the robber's hands. He flung it aside and drove his other fist into the man's face. Bone crunched with the impact. With a soft grunt of effort, he surged to his feet, hauling the robber's sagging form up with him. Grabbing the back of the man's hooded jacket, he rammed him head-first into the side of the counter.

The robber went completely strutless, so Motormaster did it again. He felt strong for the first time that day, in control and in his element. He pivoted on one heel, getting a good grip on the man's belt, then twisted around to put his whole frame behind the throw. The robber's limp body sailed through the air, struck the door head-first and thudded to the ground, half in and half out of the deli.

Motormaster wiped his hands off with some satisfaction and bent to retrieve the shotgun. That was when the afterechoes in his ears died down and he realized that the woman was on the phone.

"…at the corner of 8th and Natoma," she said. "Yes, attempted robbery. But he's, uh…"

Before she could go on, Motormaster leaned over the counter, plucked the phone from her hand and slammed it down. She flinched and brought her hands up.

 _Gotta leave before the cops gets here. Good thing she doesn't know my name._ "You never saw me before, got it?" he told her. "You have no idea what I look like or where I went."

She nodded rapidly. Motormaster straightened up again, thinking that it was nice to have humans obeying without question.

"And I'll take a large coffee," he said, suddenly remembering why he had come into the shop in the first place. "Black. One sugar."

"S-sure." She fixed it quickly and handed him the cup. "No charge."

Well, that was good too. Tucking the shotgun against the length of his body where it would be less visible to a casual observer, Motormaster took his coffee and started out.

"Wait," the woman called. He stopped and turned. "You – you drop in any time if you'd like another cup. On the house."

 _Free coffee. Not bad, not bad at all._ Motormaster gave her a curt nod and walked out, stepping over the robber's body. In a few minutes he was back at their apartment and let himself in. Wildrider and Breakdown were playing cards at the table, though from the smell in the kitchen they had started cooking something for lunch, and Motormaster didn't feel like growling at them for wasting time.

"Hey boss," Wildrider said. "Didja get a job?"

Motormaster shut the door. "No. But I got a gun." He displayed it, pleased at the size and the explosive power. "And free coffee."

"Works for me," Breakdown said, and dealt the cards.


	11. Rat Race

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 11! Breakdown emerges from hiding to seek gainful employment. It doesn't go well, but fortunately Wildrider is there to cheer him up. (Warning for m/m smut.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place on the same day as the previous one. When the cat's away…

**Chapter 11 : Rat Race**

Breakdown scoped out the warehouse from a safe distance. No obvious weak spots or entry points, so it would be relatively easy to defend from within. Wildrider had told him that the people who owned it were looking for a night watchman – he had considered trying for the job himself, but decided it would be too boring, being there all alone all night.

To Breakdown, it sounded like his dream job. He no longer felt as though every human in the vicinity was staring at him, but he still didn't like being looked at. That ruled him out for most jobs, and if not for Motormaster's orders and threats he would have stayed in their new base of operations, maintaining it as best he could and waiting for the other Stunticons to save enough to buy a computer.

On the other hand, he didn't mind being paid to wait in a warehouse all night, so after he had scouted the exterior of the huge building and made a mental note of everything he saw, he headed for the small office at the front. With their new phone installed he had been able to call ahead, and a man came out of the office to meet him.

"Mr. Krowen?" He held out a hand. "Great to meet you! I'm Les Hanson."

Breakdown shook the extended hand as firmly and confidently as he could. He had spent the past day in the library, reading a book called _How to Get Any Job You Want_ – one consequence of being human, he had realized, was that he had to actively memorize things to get them into his databanks. He had spent hours with the book, rehearsing all the possible questions an interviewer might ask him and what the best answers were to give.

"Come in, come in, take a seat." Hanson hurried into a small room, sweeping a stack of clipboards off a chair and pushing it in front of a desk. He was so bustling and jovial that he seemed to occupy far more space in the room than he actually took up. Breakdown eased himself into the chair and sat straight-backed, hands clasped on his knees.

"So we need someone to keep an eye on the place at night." Hanson sat down on the edge of his desk. "You got any experience in that line of work, Mr. Krowen?"

Breakdown nodded, struggling to meet the human's eyes. "I used to work for a private company which provided such security measures." He reached into a pocket and took out a folded paper. "Here's a referee from my former supervisor."

Hanson looked puzzled, but took the paper and unfolded it. "Oh, a reference. Good, good. So, did you like working with this Mr. Morter?"

"Y-yes." Breakdown wondered whether to look back into just one of the human's eyes or both of them. _It's all right, he can't tell who you are, just keep going!_ "He taught me to stay focused on my work and follow instructions."

"Strict kinda guy?"

The book had mentioned that it was important not to criticize former employers. "A little. But it's important to have a chin of command."

"A what?"

Breakdown wondered what he had said wrong. "I mean, you need to know whose odors to follow, who's in charge."

"I… see," Hanson said. "What kinda education have you got, Mr. Krowen?"

"I speak several languages," Breakdown said, still wishing that the human would look at Motormaster's letter, at the floor, anywhere but at him. His skin was starting to feel damp. "English, Chinese and Spinach, for a start. I don't have a formal education, but I'm well-read."

Hanson frowned and Breakdown knew at once he had done it again, but he wasn't sure which word he'd said wrong. Just enduring the man's stare was difficult enough, and the harder he tried to stare back – _make eye contract, that's important to humans!_ – the less he could concentrate on his speech. _Should I repeat what I said or pretend it didn't happen? Should I say I'm sorry?_

Before he could decide, Hanson said, "So you never went to school or anything?"

"No, but I'm illustrious... I mean, I work really hard." Breakdown knew he was making more mistakes, but he was so desperate that he didn't seem to be able to stop. It felt like driving with his brake lines cut. All the while Hanson's eyes bored into him like lasers, hot and penetrating, and his skin all but dripped in response. "If you give me a chance, I won't let you drown."

"Huh?" Hanson shook his head. "Never mind. Thanks for your application, Mr. Krowen. We'll contact you if we want to follow up, all right?"

Breakdown stood, torn between relief that the human was no longer staring at him and a heavy, miserable feeling that he had messed up. As if observing the scene from a short distance, he heard himself mumble a few words of thanks – _probably fragging that up as well,_ he thought. He couldn't get out quickly enough.

Except he felt no better outside. It was midday by then and the streets were crowded. An accident had just occurred on the road he had taken to the warehouse and the police had closed off the intersection, so Breakdown found himself funneled into a narrower street along with what felt like hundreds of people all hurrying in one way or another. He got on to the sidewalk so that the buildings were on one side of him. After the disastrous interview he didn't want anyone looking at him, much less touching him, and yet there were people everywhere–

He gave up and sank down on to a step. It was a little cooler there with the door's awning casting a bit of shade over him, and he hunched his shoulders, staring down at his feet. Once the lunch hour was over and the crowd thinned out, he would go home. The spot he had picked was littered – there were cigarette butts and an empty coffee cup near him – but he didn't care as long as no one was staring at him.

A flicker of movement nearby made him start. Someone had tossed a coin at him and it landed in the coffee cup at his side, making the cup wobble. Breakdown hunched a little more, drawing his knees close to his chest and hoping people wouldn't throw anything else at him. _Just ignore me, I'm not here. Just please go about your work._

A quarter clinked into the cup. Breakdown was so startled he raised his head and looked into the cup. There was enough money in it for a phone call, but he didn't understand why people were—

Another coin landed in the cup but when he dared to glance up, no one was actually looking at him. Some fumbled in pockets or purses as they passed by, but they didn't stare at him – in fact, they seemed to deliberately _avoid_ looking at him.

"Thank you," he muttered, not knowing what else to say. By the time the lunch hour ended, he had almost five dollars in change, though it didn't exactly make up for the interview – certainly Motormaster was unlikely to accept five dollars as an acceptable substitute for a job. But at least he didn't have to go back to their base empty-handed.

* * *

Breakdown vented a sigh of relief when he finally reached the door to their apartment and gave it a tentative knock. The only other Stunticon likely to be home this early was Drag Strip, but after everything he'd been through today, the prospect of spending the rest of the afternoon with Drag Strip was almost appealing. At least Drag Strip wouldn't stare at him – he'd be too busy preening in preparation for his new job.

To his surprise, it was Wildrider who opened the door. "Hey," he said. "You're just in time. I made sandwiches."

Breakdown came in and shut the door behind him, trying to decide if he was hungry or not. It had been easy to tell as a mech; if he needed to refuel, a warning would pop up in his HUD. Their human bodies had low fuel warnings too, they'd discovered – warnings that cropped up with alarming frequency – but they were nowhere near as explicit.

"I don't think I'm hungry," he said, staring down at the sandwich Wildrider shoved into his hands.

"Don't worry, they're not made of fingers," Wildrider said. "Or knuckles."

"Huh?"

"Humans put body parts in sandwiches sometimes," Wildrider said. "But I just used cheese."

"Distrusting," he said, eyeing the sandwich. "I mean the body parts, not the cheese." He took a cautious bite. It tasted okay, so he took another. "Where are the others?" he asked between swallows.

"Dunno," Wildrider said around a mouthful of sandwich. "Out looking for jobs, I guess. Drag Strip said something about getting a wax."

Breakdown frowned. "Humans don't use wax. They don't have plating."

Wildrider snorted. "Tell that to him."

"How come you're home so early? You couldn't find a job either?"

"I did find one," Wildrider said. "And I did it perfectly, too! But then they got mad and told me to leave. Can you believe that? Humans are weird."

"Yeah," Breakdown said quietly, putting down his half-eaten sandwich. Suddenly he didn't want it anymore. "I think I'm gonna go lie down."

He peeled off his clothes and lay down on the mattress, venting another sigh. Drag Strip and Wildrider had both found jobs – what if Motormaster and Dead End did too? Would he be the only one left who hadn't? Mr. Hanson had said he would call, but Wildrider hadn't mentioned the phone ringing.

He was about to get up and ask when Wildrider came in. "Are you gonna recharge now?" he asked.

Breakdown shook his head; he didn't feel like recharging any more than he felt like eating. "Did anyone call today while I was gone?"

"Nope." Wildrider flopped down on the bed beside him. "Why?"

"No reason," he said, rolling over onto his side. "I just wondered."

"I'm bored," Wildrider said after a moment. "Wish we had a TV."

"You could play cards." He gestured towards the clothes he'd left on the floor. "I bought some on my way home today. They're in my pocket."

"Cool," Wildrider said happily. "You wanna play?"

"Not really," he said, staring at the wall.

Wildrider studied him for a moment. "You wanna 'face?"

Breakdown sat up, turning around to look at him. "Are you trying to be funny?"

"No, I'm serious," Wildrider said. "You want to?"

"And how are we supposed to do that?" he asked. "We're human now, remember? Humans don't interface."

"Sure they do," Wildrider argued. "They do it all the time on TV! Movies, too."

"How?" he asked, mystified.

"It's easy – first they turn off the lights and take off all their clothes, then they get into bed, get under the sheets and do it."

Breakdown looked around. "Well, the lights are off," he said. "But you still have your clothes on, and we don't have any sheets."

Wildrider sat up and began removing his clothes, tossing them onto the floor. "Clothes are weird," he said. "Like, you have to wear them or people will stare at you, but when Drag Strip takes his off, people give him money! And you have to take 'em off to 'face, too."

"And to wash," Breakdown said.

"Yeah," Wildrider agreed. "They just get in the way!"

"I guess humans need them to keep warm. Maybe that's what the sheets are for?"

"Well, I'm not cold," Wildrider said, snuggling up to him. "Are you?"

"No," he said. Having Wildrider pressed against him was strangely soothing, not to mention warm. "You really want to 'face?"

"Sure," Wildrider said. "Don't you? It's been ages since last time."

"I guess." It _had_ been a while. "But I don't have wheels or a spoiler anymore."

Wildrider frowned, looking thoughtful. After a moment he reached up and took hold of Breakdown's shoulder, rubbing and squeezing, trailing his thumb over the curve of fleshy muscle where Breakdown's rims used to be. "How does that feel?"

Breakdown's wheel rims had been one of his most sensitive hot spots. Wildrider's touch didn't elicit the same strut-melting wave of pleasure it should have, but some part of him still expected it to, and the memory stirred the faintest flicker of arousal. "Good, I guess," he said uncertainly. "Not 'facing good, but it's kinda nice."

Wildrider leaned into him, putting more of his weight onto Breakdown's chestplate as he stretched down to stroke the back of Breakdown's leg where his rear wheel had been. "What about here?" he grunted, squeezing firmly.

"Uh-uh. Sorry."

Wildrider huffed, straightening up again and settling more decisively on top of him. He reached over Breakdown's shoulder, groping for a spoiler that was no longer there. "How 'bout here?" he asked, his voice muffled because his face was buried in Breakdown's neck.

The warm puff of air that accompanied the words made Breakdown squirm, tickling over his skin. "N-no," he giggled. Wildrider's frustrated determination was amusing, and he was sort of enjoying the attention. "Not there, either."

Wildrider bit his neck in retribution and Breakdown gasped. The mild nip hadn't hurt exactly, but it sent a flare of sensation through him, a feeling that was at once both strange and familiar.

"Do that again," he said.

Wildrider complied, giving up on trying to stimulate his nonexistent spoiler in favor of pawing at his front as he nibbled along Breakdown's neck cables. When his fingertips brushed over one of the knobs on Breakdown's chestplate, Breakdown gasped again, arching into the touch.

Wildrider was quick to catch on; both hands immediately reached for the knobs, rubbing and kneading them between his fingers. Breakdown's ventilations quickened, and if he'd had an engine it would have been revving. But after a moment Wildrider stopped and sat up.

"What?" Breakdown said. "I think that was working."

"Look, they're sticking out now," Wildrider said, drawing Breakdown's attention to his chest. The knobs were flushed a deep pink, and they _did_ look more prominent than before. "Maybe they're supposed to plug into something?"

"Where?"

"What about here?" Wildrider said, poking at the shallow port in his abdomen.

"There's two of them," he pointed out. "And anyway, they're too small."

Wildrider frowned thoughtfully for a moment, then shrugged. "Never mind, I'll just use my mouth."

Breakdown didn't object as Wildrider leaned over him again. His skin felt hot, the way his plating would have under similar circumstances. When Wildrider's mouth, warm and wet, closed over the nearer of the two knobs, a jolt of pleasure shot through his frame like an electric current.

The current seemed to burn through unseen wires, running in a hot line directly to his groin, and Breakdown felt an odd tightening sensation as the skin there pulled taut. Wildrider turned his attention to the other knob, setting off another surge of pleasure, and Breakdown moaned, arching beneath him, reaching up to tease Wildrider's helm spikes only to find that they weren't there.

He dropped his hands to Wildrider's shoulders as Wildrider moved down his body, but Wildrider's wheels were gone, too. Nevertheless he gripped them tighter when Wildrider ran his glossa over his abdominal ridges like they were the slats of his grille, making his hips jerk reflexively. He felt a strange shifting sensation in his groin.

"Oh," he said, looking down. "It's doing it again."

Wildrider glanced down as well. That odd bit of kibble was standing upright, the way it often did when they woke from recharge. It had happened to all of them at least once since they became human, and they'd all been thoroughly bewildered until Wildrider discovered that flushing his radiator caused it to revert to its previous state.

"You have to go _now?_ " Wildrider asked incredulously.

"…I don't think so," Breakdown said. "It feels…different."

"Different how?"

"Like, um – oh!" he gasped as Wildrider carefully wrapped a hand around it. "I – I think it's a hot spot."

"Really? So this feels good?" Wildrider said, giving it an experimental squeeze.

Breakdown's vents hitched sharply at the intense burst of sensation. "Definitely good.”

"Weird," Wildrider said, sitting up. "Try touching mine."

Breakdown did, at first tracing it with a cautious fingertip, then growing bolder when Wildrider didn't protest. The skin was very soft, and seemed most sensitive at the tip. After a few minutes of experimentation, Wildrider's kibble was soon extended as well.

"I wonder why it stands up like that," he said.

"I dunno. I never saw anything like this on TV. Stupid sheets."

"It kinda looks like a joystick," he said, gripping it firmly and pressing his thumb where the firing button would have been.

"Ooh, you're winnin' the game right there, Breaks," Wildrider groaned.

The next thing Breakdown knew, Wildrider was seated astride him, rocking his hips into his hand and venting hard. "Wow, this thing has so many uses!" Wildrider said, reaching down to stroke and fondle him in return. "Hey – maybe this is its alt mode!"

"Do you think – it does anything else?" Breakdown panted, trying to catch his breath.

"I dunno," Wildrider said, "But I think I'm gonna –" He broke off with a gasp, his entire frame shuddering. Breakdown's hand tightened reflexively, and the kibble twitched in his grip, a strange pale fluid spurting out onto his hand.

Breakdown froze, his optics widening in alarm. "Did I break it? It's gone all floopy."

Wildrider collapsed atop him bonelessly and breathed a contented sigh. "If you did, you can break me anytime. I think I just overloaded."

"It didn't hurt?"

Wildrider gave him a broad, lazy smile. "Oh, it hurt _so_ good."

Breakdown thought about that for a moment. "I wanna try."

Wildrider laughed. "All _right!_ My turn to play with the joystick – think I can get a high score?"


	12. Pounding the Pavement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 12! Dead End finally breaks down (ha) and joins the job hunt. Obviously it's a completely pointless endeavor since they're all going to die anyway, but Motormaster insisted. (Warning for m/m smut.)

**Chapter 12 : Pounding the Pavement**

_Seek human employment,_ Motormaster had said.

He hadn't used those exact words, of course – Motormaster's favored mode of expression was characteristically blunt and often profane – but those were his orders nonetheless. Find a job. Earn money. Make yourself useful.

_Or else._

Dead End put it off for as long as he dared. He spent the first day cleaning their temporary base from top to bottom, excising every last speck of dirt and grime. On the second day he'd gone to the library with the others, reasoning that it was better to be well-informed than risk making easily avoidable mistakes out of ignorance. On the third day he'd gone out and explored their new neighborhood, forging a mental map of the area to facilitate future navigation.

But when Drag Strip managed to find a job and even _Breakdown_ scheduled an interview in the hope of doing the same, Dead End realized he couldn't put it off any longer. So here he was, sitting at a table in the deli not far from their apartment with a cup of coffee and a fresh newspaper, perusing the want ads and weighing his options. He didn't want to work in a place that wasn't clean, or perform tasks that were repetitive or demeaning. That alone limited his options significantly.

Many of the jobs listed in the paper were frustratingly vague. _Administrative Assistant. Project Manager. Supervising Technician._ Few provided any meaningful details about what the job would require him to do, or what kind of environment he'd be expected to do it in. Most of the ones he _did_ understand were those he'd prefer to avoid, jobs that involved looking after animals or human offspring (both of which amounted to the same thing, in Dead End's opinion.)

He was nearly to the point of simply choosing a job at random when he spied the ad seeking assistance in an establishment that specialized in the repair and detailing of foreign automobiles.

He allowed himself to ponder that for a moment, recalling the sweet scent of carnauba wax and leather upholstery, the sensation of a soft cloth gliding across gleaming metal. He sighed wistfully.

"Can I get you anything else?"

Dead End looked up. The human female who had brought him his coffee was standing next to his table. He shook his head. "No, thank you."

"Looking for a job?" she asked, nodding toward the paper.

"No," he said, rising and delving into his pocket for money to settle the bill. "I've just found one."

* * *

"Thanks for stopping by, Mr. – what did you say your name was?"

"Dan Deed," Dead End replied.

It was clearly fate that he'd found that ad in the paper. The establishment he'd sought out was clean and well maintained, and the human who'd agreed to speak with him when he asked about the job appeared equally well-groomed, if casually dressed. Dead End approved.

"Ted Rucinski," the human said, extending a hand. Dead End shook it – the books in the library had stressed the importance of a firm handshake – and met his gaze squarely. "So you're interested in the position we advertised in the _Chronicle?_ "

"I am," he said.

"You a mechanic?" Ted asked. "All our mechanics are certified with one or more of the makes of cars we service – BMW, Audi, Porsche –"

"No," he said. "My expertise lies in the area of automotive detailing. There isn't a shampoo, wax or polish on this planet I haven't tried."

Ted's eyebrow rose. "Which one's your favorite?"

"Pinnacle Liquid Souveran Wax," he replied. "If I were a car, I would use it on myself."

Ted grinned. "And how would you apply it?"

"With a foam applicator immediately following a rinse," he said. "I find applying it wet leaves a deeper shine."

Ted looked impressed. "You know your stuff. When can you start?"

A hint of a smile tugged at Dead End's lip components. "If you wish, I can start immediately."

"Excellent!" Ted said. "Step into my office and we'll get you started on the paperwork. Just need to fill out a few forms and give us a copy of your Social Security card for the IRS, and you'll be all set."

Dead End's face fell. "Ah," he said.

The human had turned away to lead him to the aforementioned office, but now he turned back to give him a puzzled look. "Something wrong?"

Dead End hesitated. "I don't have a Social Security card."

Ted blinked. "Oh," he said. "Well, that's…gonna be a problem."

* * *

"So have you ever worked in retail before?"

The human female who'd greeted his inquiry had introduced herself as Amy Hsu, favoring him with a smile that bordered on predatory. She was elaborately coiffed but aggressively cheerful, and Dead End took an instant dislike to her.

"No," he replied. "But I am interested in clothing."

Amy's brilliant smile vanished. "Oh. You're one of _them_ , huh?" She sighed, making a moue of disappointment. "Figures."

Dead End frowned. Had she somehow sensed he wasn't human? "Is that a problem?"

"Not for the job," she replied in a bored tone. "You can fill out an application at the register while I photocopy your ID. Someone will call you for an interview in a couple of days."

"ID?"

"Yeah, you know – driver's license, passport; any kind of identification that has your photo on it."

"Ah."

* * *

His next stop was a high-end eating establishment. With the exception of coffee, Dead End didn't particularly enjoy any of the various forms of sustenance the humans considered fuel, but he thought he could tolerate serving it to others. The environment suited him, at least – crisp white tablecloths, utensils that shimmered like polished chrome – so he went inside.

They asked for references. He didn't have any.

 _This is becoming irritating,_ he thought as he left. He could have performed that job with ease. He could have performed _any_ of the jobs he'd sought today with minimal difficulty, but each time he'd been denied on a mere technicality. If the same was true of every human occupation, this entire endeavor was nothing but a waste of time.

 _Drag Strip found a job,_ he reminded himself.

That was both comforting and annoying. Drag Strip had been insufferably smug ever since he'd returned to the base with news of his success, but at least he'd proven it could be done. Clearly there were some humans who would be willing to overlook Dead End's lack of documentation. He just had to find one.

 _It's not pointless,_ he thought, suppressing the urge to simply turn around and return home. Never mind that precious seconds of his now-agonizingly-ephemeral lifespan were ticking away too swiftly to count. Death was inevitable and always had been.

But he didn't want to die as a _human_. He checked the paper again. He'd already exhausted every job on his short list of semi-desirable options; all that remained now were the ones that had been too nonspecific to make a determination, and those he was certain he didn't want.

Venting a resigned sigh, he began taking note of any job within the former group that was located in close proximity to his current position and plotted out a circular search pattern. He'd just have to try them all.

* * *

By late afternoon, Dead End was ready to give up.

Everywhere he'd gone had been the same. He'd inquire about a job, and be asked to provide something he didn't have. On a few occasions he was told the job had already been filled. Only one remained that he hadn't tried, excluding those he'd eliminated as undesirable – an ad seeking something called a "Customer Care Specialist."

The daylight hours in which the humans conducted business were nearly spent, and his fuel tank was protesting its neglect. He was tired and his feet ached. His appearance was also suffering; he'd spent a considerable amount of time bathing and grooming that morning, but over the course of the day his efforts had begun to deteriorate. When he'd left the apartment his hair had been combed back neatly from his forehead, but now the deep burgundy strands were falling in his eyes.

 _All right,_ he thought. _Just one more._

He pushed his hair out of his eyes, adjusted the collar of his shirt, and entered the final building.

"May I help you?"

Dead End glanced around, taking in the features of the small yet tidy office suite before returning his attention to the human female seated behind the reception desk. "I'm here to inquire about the job," he said.

"Do you have an appointment?" she asked.

"No," he said wearily. It hadn't occurred to him that he might need to call first. Perhaps he should have gone home after all.

The woman frowned at his defeated tone. Recalling abruptly that the books in the library had insisted a positive attitude was the key to success, Dead End forced his lip components to contort themselves into what he hoped was an engaging smile. It made his face hurt.

Based on her reaction, it must have looked more like a grimace of pain. "I guess I could ask Mr. Adams if he'd mind seeing you without one," she offered hesitantly.

"Thank you," he said, allowing his features to fall back into a more normal configuration.

He waited while she made the call, trying not to dwell on the sheer futility of it all. After a moment she hung up the phone and addressed him again. "You can go on in; it's just through there."

Dead End nodded soberly and proceeded through the door she'd indicated, feeling like he was attending his own execution.

"Good afternoon," the human said, rising from his seat behind a large desk and extending a hand, smiling broadly. "I'm Mr. Adams."

"De – Dan Deed," he replied, shaking the proffered hand.

"Have a seat, Mr. Deed," Mr. Adams said, gesturing towards a chair set in front of the desk. "I understand you're interested in the customer service position."

"That is correct," he said, sitting down. It was a relief to get off his feet. He thought longingly of his room back on the _Nemesis_ , his berth, his polish –

"Do you have any experience working in customer service?"

"No," he replied. The human opened his mouth to ask another question, but Dead End interrupted before he could speak. "Is all this really necessary?" he asked.

Mr. Adams blinked in surprise. "Excuse me?"

"I don't have a resume," he said. "I have no references, no formal education, and no ID. I will, however, arrive on time each day and perform whatever duties you see fit to assign me. Is that not the entire purpose of this endeavor?"

The human looked nonplussed. "Well…I suppose we could skip straight to the test script."

Dead End's relief at not being immediately dismissed was somewhat mitigated by the use of the word "test." "What must I do to pass?" he asked.

"It's not that kind of test," Mr. Adams said with a smile. "It's more like a role-playing activity. Much of the job involves taking calls and logging complaints, and the test script is designed to give us an idea of how you'd handle a typical call. I play the role of the customer, and you do your best to address my complaint."

"I see," he said. "I am ready. Please begin."

Mr. Adams picked up the handset of the phone and held it to his ear, but didn't dial a number. "Hello," he said. "I'm having a problem with my microwave. It's not working right, and I only bought it a week ago!"

"Perhaps it's broken," he said.

"I know it's broken, that's why I'm calling you! I want a replacement."

"Why?" Dead End asked. "It'll just break again. Every machine breaks down eventually."

"It's still under warranty!"

"Perhaps it is, but you are not," he said. "The human body is nothing more than an organic machine, one with a very limited shelf life. You are dying even as we speak. You might have only days left to live. Shouldn't you be doing something more important than talking to me?"

Mr. Adams stared at him for a long moment, then carefully hung up the phone. "Well," he said with an awkward laugh, "I don't know about customer service, but you'd be a big hit in our accounting department."

Dead End arched an eyebrow. "Are they hiring?"

* * *

Dead End left the office building and started down the sidewalk, his helm bowed, his hands sunk deep in his pockets. The streets were crowded with the early evening rush, but the press of human bodies surrounding him barely registered on his awareness. He felt drained and disheveled, weary to the core. He could feel himself withdrawing, beginning to shut down, but he couldn't muster the energy to care.

Drag Strip's success had obviously been nothing but a lucky glitch, the exception that proved the rule. Even if the others imitated him exactly, they were doomed to fail. Dead End's own lack of success was proof of that. Lightning didn't strike twice.

Perhaps there was a small, faint hope that the money Drag Strip brought home would be enough to sustain them, but the odds of having enough left over to obtain a computer were slim. Any amount they managed to save would be so incremental it would take months or even years before they accumulated enough. They'd rust first.

These human bodies were nothing more than a prison, and they'd all been given a life sentence.

He was so preoccupied with his thoughts he inadvertently collided with another human heading in the opposite direction. Glancing up, he dimly registered that the human was female, her pale cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

"Sorry," she said as their optics met. "I wasn't watching where I was going."

"Nor I," he replied.

She smiled at that, ducking her head shyly, but Dead End was no longer looking at her. Something far more interesting had captured his attention.

"Please excuse me," he said, overriding her attempt to say something more. She stared at him as he brushed past her, stepping off the sidewalk and into the decorated parking lot to his right.

It was parked in the second row, black and shimmering in the late afternoon sunlight.

A Porsche 928.

He approached it as if hypnotized, reaching out to trail his fingertips over the sun-warmed metal. His chest felt tight, gripped by a pang of loss and longing, a sweet, agonizing ache.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" a voice said from behind him. "Nothing like a Porsche."

Dead End didn't look up. He couldn't have torn his optics away if he'd tried. "Indeed."

"Handles like a dream," the man said, moving up to stand beside him. "Smooth, fast, perfectly balanced –"

"Yes," he agreed. "It does."

"Oh, so you've driven one before?"

"Less than a week ago," he replied. He traced the line of the hood slowly, reverently. "It feels like longer."

There was a brief, puzzled silence. "Well, this here is the latest model, fully loaded," the man said, producing a set of keys and unlocking the driver's side door. "Hop on in; I'll walk you through the features."

Dead End considered for a moment, then complied. He didn't need to look at the sticker taped to the Porsche's window to know the handful of change in his pocket would be woefully insufficient to purchase any car, let alone this one, but he couldn't bring himself to refuse.

He slid into the driver's seat while the salesman scurried around to the passenger side and climbed in. The leather sighed as he took his place behind the wheel, the familiar scent wafting up to tease his sensors. Dead End offlined his optics and breathed it in, savoring it.

"…all leather interior, power steering, power locks, sunroof," the salesman rambled. "ABS brakes, limited slip differential, forged alloy wheels…"

Dead End ignored him, onlining his optics and reaching up to run his hands over the steering wheel, feeling the perforated leather slide beneath his fingertips. _No combat radar,_ he thought. _No force field._ The speedometer was analog instead of digital, and there was a Porsche emblem on the steering wheel where his Decepticon insignia had been, but none of that mattered. It felt like coming home.

"Feels great, doesn't it?" the salesman asked with a smile.

"Incomparable," he replied.

His grip on the wheel tightened, a curious obstruction rising up to lodge in his throat. He leaned forward, bowing his helm to rest his forehead on the graceful curve of the steering wheel. He thought of racing down the open highways, the steady thrum of a high-performance engine, the sensation smooth asphalt unfolding beneath his tires as he chased the sunrise. _Will I ever feel that way again?_

"So, uh…did you want to take it for a test drive?"

Dead End raised his helm reluctantly. "No," he said. The ache in his chest had become too much to bear. "That won't be necessary."

Opening the door, he exited the Porsche, leaving the baffled salesman fumbling blindly for the door handle on the passenger side. "Thank you for your time," he said.

He left without looking back.

* * *

Dead End let himself into the apartment with his key and closed the door quietly behind him.

Three pairs of optics noted his arrival. Breakdown and Wildrider were seated on the floor playing cards, and Motormaster had laid claim to the couch. Drag Strip was nowhere to be seen. Dead End ignored them all and made a beeline for the washrack, shedding his human garments along the way heedless of where they fell.

Breakdown and Wildrider exchanged a look, glancing from him to the trail of clothing he'd left abandoned in his wake, but Dead End shut the door on any questions they might have asked. He headed straight for the shower, turning on the water full blast and stepping under it.

For several minutes he stood beneath the pounding spray, offlining his optics and letting the roar of the water fill his audials. It beat against his skin in a rhythmic tattoo, sluicing over him, enveloping him in a cocoon of warmth and white noise.

He might have remained that way for hours, silent and motionless, drifting without thought beneath the steady thrum of rushing water, but a tentative brush of fingertips across his lower back pulled him from his apathetic daze.

He stiffened at the touch, belatedly registering that he was no longer alone in the 'rack.

"It's all right," Breakdown whispered, his soft voice barely audible. "It's just me."

Dead End relaxed, the tension slowly easing from his servos as Breakdown reached for the soap and began gently scrubbing his back. He wasn't fully accustomed to the subtle differences in the way their human bodies registered external stimuli – he wasn't sure he ever _would_ be – but the act itself was familiar and reassuring.

Breakdown didn't speak, knowing better than to try and engage him in pointless conversation. He simply soaped and scrubbed, his touch soft yet deliberate, and Dead End submitted to his ministrations, relishing the sensation of Breakdown's hands sliding over his skin.

He was mildly surprised when Breakdown finished with his back and began soaping his chest, slipping his arms around him in a quasi-embrace. Dead End could have easily done that himself, but he saw no reason to protest the unexpected attention. Breakdown was a warm, soothing presence at his back, his hands massaging Dead End's chestplate in broad, lazy circles, and Dead End had never been one to refuse a little tactile indulgence.

All in all, it was quite pleasant and relaxing – until Breakdown's hand dipped lower, venturing into distinctly uncharted territory.

Dead End tensed reflexively, his intakes hitching. "What are you doing?"

"Helping you relapse," Breakdown said, cupping him gently in a warm, soapy hand.

"I think you mean relax," he replied. "And I'm not sure that's the best way to do it."

"It is," Breakdown said, pressing his lip components to the back of Dead End's neck. "Trust me."

Dubiously, he submitted, allowing Breakdown to continue. He soon discovered that the flesh in that region was highly sensitive, responding to Breakdown's touch in a very curious manner.

"Don't worry, that's normal," Breakdown said before he could ask. "It's supposed to do that."

"If you say so," he replied. Truth be told, he wasn't all that inclined to complain. The way Breakdown was touching him felt…nice.

Breakdown's other hand wasn't idle, either; it continued to roam over his chestplate, periodically tugging and pinching the peculiar knobs there. His mouth was on Dead End's neck, exploring the skin with lips, tongue, and occasionally, teeth.

He was being deluged by a wealth of sensations; Breakdown's hands, his mouth, the warm water splashing over them, running over his skin or clinging in tiny droplets. His breath quickened, coming in short, hitching gasps, a strange tension gathering in his muscles, growing and building to an unsustainable peak –

And then all at once came the moment of release, accompanied by waves of pleasure that coursed through his frame, leaving him panting and trembling in the aftermath. His head fell back against Breakdown's shoulder as he sagged in his embrace, breathing a long drawn-out sigh.

"Are you back now?" Breakdown asked after a moment.

Dead End opened his eyes, tilting his head slightly to meet Breakdown's worried gaze. "Yes, I think so," he said. "What was that?"

"That's how humans interface," Breakdown replied. "Wildrider and I figured it out. Did you like it?"

"It seemed pleasant enough," he said. "Did you?"

Breakdown hesitated. "You mean when Wildrider and I did it?"

"Ah," he said, realizing his mistake. He twisted in Breakdown's arms, turning around to face him, and laid a hand on Breakdown's chestplate. "Show me."

"Here," Breakdown said, taking hold of his hand and guiding it to the right spot. "Like this…"


	13. Off The Beaten Track

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 13! Wildrider is great at finding jobs...he just needs to figure out how to keep one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first part of this chaptercoincides with events from the previous one. Also, the car Wildrider drives at the start of the chapter is taken from another popular TV show of the decade - see if you recognize it!

**Chapter 13 : Off The Beaten Track**

"32A," Wildrider said as he slammed the Corvette's door and turned the key in the ignition. "Watch me fly."

He would have been happy to drive any car, but the Corvette was a thing of beauty – perfectly maintained and upholstered in red leather, with its white paintjob set off by a bright red stripe. That had reminded Wildrider of his own alt-mode, and he had stared in longing at the car as the owner tossed the keys to Shen, the parking valet. Wildrider was still in training, but he looked hopefully at Shen.

"OK, let's see what you can do," Shen had said, tossing him the keys. "Take it right around and park in 32A."

 _Nothing easier,_ Wildrider thought as the engine growled into life. He shoved the parking brake down and slammed the gearshift, stamping a foot down on the gas pedal at the same time. The Corvette shot forward as if fired out of a gun.

A long island divided the upper level of the parking garage, and 32A was on the other side. Wildrider reached the other end of the floor in two seconds, and threw his weight to one side, wrenching the steering wheel at the same time. The Corvette's weight shifted as well. It tore around the island on two wheels, thudded back to all four and then hurtled up the other side of the island with a shriek of rubber on asphalt.

Wildrider hit the brakes and swung into a bootlegger reverse with one hand on the wheel, the other arm tossed casually over the red leather seats. The Corvette shot into the correct parking space and Wildrider smashed the brake pedal just in time, halting the car with its rear bumper three inches from the wall. He yanked the parking brake up, killed the engine and jumped out, swinging the key jauntily from one finger as he turned to face the valet's booth. Shen stood there with his mouth open.

"Not bad, huh?" Wildrider said, glancing down to make sure he had parked within the lines. _Yup, it's perfect._

"You're fired," Shen told him.

* * *

Wildrider's first duty in his next job was to round up all the shopping trolleys that people had left all over the parking lot. Wearing his new green T-shirt with the "Trainee" badge, he plodded out of the grocery store to the other end of the parking lot, then turned and looked critically from side to side.

_Yeah… as long as I have the right speed and trajectory... and quit thinking about it and just DO it—_

He burst into a run, then leaped as he reached the nearest trolley. He landed inside it, and his momentum was more than enough. The trolley took off with a loud rattle and Wildrider crouched down, then flung his weight to steer it in the correct direction as he aimed for the next trolley.

 _Time it right,_ he thought as he stood up. A moment before the first trolley folded into the second, he leaped over and into the second one. "Wheeeee!"

The crash as the carts combined had made his teeth rattle almost as badly as the trolley did, but now he had two… and then three. He dodged a car that was peeling out and collected more trolleys, riding at top speed across the parking lot and drawing closer to the storefront as he did so.

 _Now comes the good part,_ he thought as he stood up. In the grocery store windows, customers were staring, so Wildrider waved at them a moment before the wheels of the first trolley hit the curb. He leaped with the impact, turned a somersault and landed feet-first on the sidewalk.

"Sure!" he said a few minutes later when the supervisor asked him to turn in his badge. "Do I get a proper one now? With my name on it?"

* * *

Wildrider went home for lunch whistling a tune – that was something he could do as a human that he had never been able to do as a mech. The fact that he still wasn't employed didn't bother him. He would try again tomorrow and if that didn't work there was always the next day. As long as there were new things to do and experience, he was happy.

And besides, he reasoned, Motormaster couldn't punish him for doing his work perfectly and getting fired anyway.

As it turned out, Motormaster could and did, with a slap hard enough to send him sprawling to the floor. Then he drew back his boot as if ready to drive it into Wildrider's belly. "You'd better see about _keeping_ a job sometime soon," he said. "Understand?"

Wildrider nodded, so Motormaster only gave him a hard warning prod with the toe of his boot rather than kicking him into a fit of retches. Then he left, so Wildrider picked himself up, held a cold washcloth to his face until it stopped stinging and went to make sandwiches.

Drag Strip took off for his waxing session, but before Wildrider could start to feel lonely or bored – both of which tended to be bad news for his immediate surroundings – Breakdown had come home and they'd interfaced. That had made Wildrider feel even better. The day had started out slaggy, but it was definitely looking up now.

Plus, Breakdown was hungry enough afterwards to finish another sandwich. "This is pretty good," he said. "Maybe you could get a job in a restaurant."

That wasn't a bad idea. Wildrider imagined himself whirling at top speed from industrial-sized range to massive oven, wielding knives like a spray of steel and flinging ingredients into boiling fluids that sent up clouds of smoke. It definitely seemed more exciting than his job at the supermarket had been. So that evening after Dead End came home looking even gloomier than usual and Breakdown went to perk him up before he got into one of his funks, Wildrider started making a list of restaurants to call.

He had nearly finished when Drag Strip let himself in. Since _he_ had a job (and never hesitated to remind them about it), Motormaster had given him a key to the apartment, saying that at least that way he didn't need to wake anyone up at two in the morning.

Wildrider waved at him with a pen, but Drag Strip didn't respond and his usual confident swagger was nowhere in evidence as he stepped gingerly into the apartment. Dead End had been learning solitaire from Breakdown while they dried off after their shower, but he looked up as well.

"Hey, you're back," Breakdown said. "What was the wax like?"

Drag Strip gave them a broad smile that showed most of his teeth. "Oh, it was fantastic," he said, swinging the door shut behind him. "You guys have got to get one. You'd love it."

Wildrider burst out giggling and Breakdown clapped thrice, slowly. A muscle twitched in Dead End's cheek, as though it was trying to stretch his mouth into a smile.

"I've already explained to them what human waxing entails, Drag Strip," he said.

The fake grin fell off Drag Strip's face. "I hate you all," he said and headed for their bedroom with small careful movements, wincing occasionally. Still chuckling but now very curious about the effects of the waxing, Wildrider waited as long as he could, which was about five minutes. Then he went to their room as well.

It was dark inside and Drag Strip complained when he turned on one of the lights, but Wildrider was too fascinated by Drag Strip's now-hairless body to care. He bounced on to the bed.

"Wow," he said. "You're all smooth now. And pink!" He reached out but Drag Strip batted his hand away, hard. "What? You look so aerodynamic!"

"Well, it fragging hurt, so shut up," Drag Strip said, turning over on his side with his back to Wildrider. His shoulders were knotted and Wildrider rubbed them tentatively, expecting to be shot down again, but when there was no protest he perked up. Maybe if he managed to get Drag Strip relaxed enough, he would get a chance to touch and explore a bit more.

"Want me to show you what I learned today?" he murmured just behind Drag Strip's ear. "You'll like it."

"What?" Drag Strip said. "And don't stop massaging. You can do my feet next."

Wildrider mimed emptying his fuel tank, then tried to get back in the mood. He rubbed Drag Strip's upper arm, then remembered that it was no longer a hot spot.

"'Facing," he said. "Wanna try it?"

Drag Strip twisted back around and looked up at him. "Humans do that?"

"Sure." Wildrider stroked him, a long slow touch from ribcage to thigh. "Me and Breakdown did it this afternoon. It was fun."

"Well, I don't want to." Drag Strip twitched irritably. "I'm not interested in human intimacy. It's disgusting."

"Says the guy who strips for humans in public," Wildrider said. "What did you think _that_ was all about?"

"That's different. I don't let them paw me."

"Will you let _me_ paw you, then? I paw real good." Wildrider nuzzled an ear, pleased that Drag Strip hadn't waxed off the hair on his head. He liked the soft tickly feel of it.

"If you don't stop that I'm going to hit you," Drag Strip said tightly.

Wildrider stopped. He knew Drag Strip well enough to recognize changes in his tone. And while he enjoyed tussling, at the moment he would have preferred to interface.

"C'mon, sunshine." He used his most coaxing voice. "A good overload would relax you. Don't you at least want to try it?"

"No," Drag Strip said, his voice still tense as a spring that had been wound too far. "Those of us who have jobs and bring home money don't need whatever pathetic reactions humans have that pass for overloads. But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

For a moment Wildrider thought he had been punched so fast he hadn't actually seen the blow. That would explain the sharp sudden pain in his chest. His face felt hot too, but on both sides rather than just the one like when Motormaster had hit him earlier. Suddenly he didn't feel like 'facing any more.

He got off the bed and put his clothes on quietly, zipping up his leather jacket before he left the room. Outside he thought he heard Breakdown say something, but he didn't pause as he walked out of the apartment, and he didn't stop until he was several blocks away.

 _I'm not useless. I'm not._ But he didn't know what more he could do for the team than what he was already doing, and what if he kept getting fired? How would he get money?

 _Rob a bank, maybe?_ No, if he tried that and got caught, Motormaster would be so torqued off at him. He bit at a fingernail and kept walking, feeling as though he just wanted to put some distance between himself and his teammates for once.

He hardly saw where he was going – none of the streets or buildings looked familiar – but when strobe lights flashed at the end of the road, his reaction was fast and instinctive. Before he could think twice, Wildrider darted into the nearest alley, but while he was looking around for something to use as a weapon, the police car drove off.

Still crouched behind a wall, he waited for a moment in case it came back, keeping as quiet as possible. That was when he heard a stifled groan from somewhere further back in the alley.

Wildrider turned. There was a soft shuffle, as if someone was trying to move furtively away from him.

He jumped to his feet and headed deeper into the alley. Whatever had made the noise was hiding behind a dumpster, so Wildrider scrambled up on a crate and leaped on top of the dumpster with an echoing clang. Even in the near-darkness, he made out the huddled shape of a human below.

"Hey, come on, man!" The human raised a hand, staring up at him. "Haven't you guys done enough already?"

Wildrider's initial interest dwindled into disappointment. He hopped back down off the dumpster.

"What guys?" he said, more out of boredom and loneliness than any real curiosity.

The human's eyes looked even paler compared to the dirt and dried blood on his face. "D-didn't Jimmy send you?"

Wildrider couldn't remember Motormaster's human name but he felt sure it wasn't Jimmy – and Motormaster wouldn't send anyone else to do his thrashing for him. "No," he said. "Who's Jimmy?"

"The Nail, man." The human tried to move, but winced. "Say, can you call me a cab?"

"Okay. You're a cab." Wildrider chuckled, hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his jacket and slouched against the alley wall. "What's in it for me?"

The human looked up at him, eyes narrowing, and Wildrider shrugged. "C'mon, I can tell when someone's been mugged. You don't have any money and that's what I need right now, so." He started to walk away.

"Wait a sec."

Something about the tone of the human's voice stopped him – either that or the slight rustle of paper. He turned to see the human holding out a crumpled ten-dollar bill.

"That do you for now?" the human said. "You help me out, there be more where that came from."

Wildrider hesitated, suddenly aware that he was in a situation he didn't understand and that his team had no idea where he was. But the lure of money and danger was far too tempting, so he accepted the note and helped the human to his feet.

"I'm Melanie," he said.

Leaning heavily on Wildrider's shoulder, the human turned his head to stare at him. "And I thought I had it bad. My name's Marcelo, but everyone call me Marce."

"Nice meetin' ya," Wildrider said and took him to the end of the alley, where he left Marcelo propped against the wall. Then he halted a taxi by the simple method of leaping into the road before one and forcing it to stop, because he remembered Drag Strip being afraid when _he_ had done that. He wanted to be happy at his own lack of fear, but somehow he didn't feel much of anything.

"Can I have some more money now?" he said once he had deposited Marcelo in the back seat.

"Yeah." Marcelo's eyes narrowed again, brows coming together. "Yeah, Mel. But why don't you get in? We can talk about that money. And then we can go take it."

Wildrider hesitated again, but an injured human was no danger to him and he was curious about what Marcelo had meant about taking it. He got in and swung the door shut. Marcelo tilted his head in the driver's direction and said nothing more until the cab let them out at a small, nondescript apartment block.

"You ever ride a motorbike, Mel?" he said.

Wildrider remembered that when he and his teammates had once attacked the Protectobots, he had leaped astride the scooter. _What was that guy's name again?_ He couldn't remember, but he had managed to ride the scooter for a short distance before the startled Autobot had transformed and dumped him unceremoniously on his aft. So he nodded.

"Good, good." Marcelo fished out a set of keys and dropped them in Wildrider's hand. "Bring it out? It's in the garage over there."

Wildrider all but ran to the garage, leaving Marcelo staggering, but he couldn't have looked back even if the human had spontaneously exploded. Inside the garage was a Honda RC30, gleaming black and chrome and glass.

 _Better than money!_ Wildrider flung a leg over it, flipped the kill switch and turned the key in the ignition. The gauges lit up like a fireworks display and the powerful engine turned over, then roared. Wildrider hooked a foot into the kickstand, pulling it up, and shot out of the garage with a whoop of glee. He did a circuit of the parking lot, picking up speed, then yanked the front tire up into a wheelie before he brought the bike to a stop before Marcelo.

"Hey, this is awesome!" he said, and thought of simply riding it home. Drag Strip would die of jealousy and surely there was no way the police could find him. He put one foot on a pedal, preparing to race out.

"Can you win a race on that?" Marcelo said.

 _A race?_ Wildrider didn't need to think twice before he nodded. He was in the mood to kick someone's aft that night, and a race would be fine for that.

"Who else is racing?" he said, wishing it could be Drag Strip. _I'd make him eat my exhaust._

Marcelo lit a long cigarette that smelled even sweeter than the gas fumes. "Three other guys, maybe four, but the one you got to watch out for is the one who ain't in the race. The one who's got money riding on it. His boys jumped me, but you can take my place. And if you win, we split the cash."

Wildrider gave the engine a shot of gas, just to hear it rev. He'd missed that sound. "Just tell me where to go and who to crash."

Marcelo grinned. The parking lot was better lit than the alley had been, but the smile looked worse than the bruises on his face. "Jimmy the Nail." He unhooked a helmet that had been hanging off the back of the motorcycle's seat and tossed it to Wildrider. "That's who."


	14. Off to the Races

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 14! Drag Strip may win races, but Wildrider specializes in taking out the competition – whether he's on four wheels, on two or on none. (Warning for violence.)

**Chapter 14 : Off to the Races**

Wildrider tapped the brakes, halting the RC30 before a couple of trashcans blocking the mouth of an alley. A woman wearing a human visor – two clear glass circles, like miniature windshields – leaned against the wall just behind them, and her eyes widened when she saw him.

"Didn't think you'd show up." She stubbed her cigarette out on the lid of one trashcan and kicked it out of the way to make room for him.

Wildrider raised one gloved hand in a cheery wave and drove in. The alley opened on to a street that didn't seem large enough for the three motorbikes lined up across it. The place was poorly lighted as well, but the headlights of the bikes glowed brighter than optics in the dark and the growl of their engines nearly drowned out the mutters of the people on the sidewalk as Wildrider half-drove and half-skidded into position beside the bikes.

"That ain't Marcelo!" shouted a younger man hanging on to a wire fence that bordered the other side of the street.

Wildrider wondered how the man had been able to tell, since he was wearing Marcelo's helmet and leather gloves. He could have done without the helmet, but he was keeping the gloves no matter what happened. "Nope," he said. "Name's Mel. I'm racing in his place."

There were a few chuckles at that but Wildrider hardly noticed. He looked around at his competitors, wondering which of them to take out first.

Marcelo had warned him about that. "Jimmy got money on someone else in the race. I dunno who, but that dude'll try kill you. You might want kill him first."

Wildrider was more than happy to comply. He wasn't so keen on keeping the helmet on because it made his head feel heavy, but Marcelo had told him a story about some gestaltmate of his who had gotten into an accident with a bike and "banged his brain". Wildrider didn't want anything else happening to his processors, which he'd been told were fragged-up to begin with. So the helmet stayed on.

He didn't like the way it restricted his peripheral vision either, making him turn his head to evaluate his competitors, two of whom looked back at him with equal dislike. One was a man with bare tattooed arms that bulged almost as much as Motormaster's, his big hands gripping the handles of a Harley.

The other was a woman whose bulges were in the front, pushing out the faces of Sideswipe and Sunstreaker on her T-shirt. The words _Lambos do it in pairs_ were printed underneath, and Wildrider wondered if he could somehow get the T-shirt off her to give to Breakdown. She had a nice bike, though – a stripped-down Ducati streetfighter that Wildrider knew would be both fast and maneuverable.

The last participant in the race glanced up when Wildrider stared at him, then dropped his gaze and shifted his Kawasaki Ninja as if to put as much space as possible between them. He was thin, pale-skinned and dressed entirely in grey clothes so nondescript that they made him look like a ghost.

"That's Marcelo's bike," another man said from the sidelines as he drew a gun. Wildrider stiffened, wondering if they planned to shoot him right there and end the race, but the man only continued. "He can enter. Start your engines."

The woman with the Autobot T-shirt drew on a pair of gauntlets with studded knuckles and a stylized helmet with blue glass before her eyes. Wildrider felt his lips curve into the crazy crooked smile that sometimes had even his own teammates edging away from him. He flipped up the kickstand of the RC30 and twisted the right grip to rev his engine, every component of his frame stretched out taut as wires.

The man raised the gun and fired.

Engines roared so loudly they seemed to split the world apart. The RC30 rocketed forward, and Wildrider wasn't sure if the shuddering in his chest came from the machine's speed or his own laughter. All he knew was that in moments, he was in the lead. No one else could – or would – match his breakneck pace as the wind screamed past him.

The streets were deserted, perfect for racing, and he only had five miles or so to go. Marcelo had told him where the end of the race was – an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city – and had given him directions there, though it was an effort to remember them. Wildrider missed his nav system, the maps he could have called up on his HUD with a thought.

_Oh well,_ he thought as he sped down the road, _I can always let one of these slaggers get ahead of me, follow him, and then flatten him before he crosses the finish line._ He leaned sharply so the RC30 could corner around a building. _Or better yet, take his bike and make him run—_

A shot rang out behind him. Wildrider jerked in surprise, but when he risked a quick glance behind him he saw that none of his competitors had turned the corner yet. _Are they shooting at each other?_ That seemed too good to be true… and also too boring. _I want a challenge, damn it!_

On the other hand, getting shot was probably a little more of a challenge than his human body could take, so he maintained his speed and rode on, approaching a low overpass. The RC30's headlight picked out the road just ahead, but a little further on the weak glow of a streetlight gleamed off of something on the overpass. Without the zoom function on his optics, Wildrider squinted at the sharp serrated glint, trying to make out what—

_Spike strips!_

The strips covered the entire width of the overpass, and now he knew why the shot had been fired. It had been a warning signal to whoever was at the overpass to spring the trap. No time to turn, much less stop. Wildrider countersteered, tilting the RC30 to the left, where a bundle of trash – or a bundled-up vagrant, he didn't have time to see what it was – lay on the sidewalk.

The bike bounced up on to the curb and zoomed ahead, then struck the bundle at a hundred and fifty miles an hour. It left the ground entirely and sailed into the air, then came down again – onto the rail of the overpass.

Wildrider gripped the handles so tightly that his hands felt numb, holding the bike in a perfectly straight line as it roared along the rail. He let out a howl of glee as he passed the spike strips only four feet below him, and at his speed he cleared the overpass in seconds.

The bike soared off the rail and bounced against the road so hard that his teeth came together in a snap, but he ignored the pain and slammed the brakes, slewing to a halt. He let the rear wheel swing around the fulcrum of one foot planted on the ground and looked behind him.

The tattooed man on the Harley had been next in line, and he tried to brake when he saw the spike strips. Rubber shrieked on asphalt and the Harley went down, but it was still moving with enough momentum to slide across ten feet of road onto the metal barbs.

Wildrider winced involuntarily, thinking of what that might have done to _his_ tires, but he didn't look away. Even through the cloud of smoke and dust he saw two figures dart out from the shadows to remove the spike strips.

_So one of the other competitors is the one I have to take out._ He considered getting rid of whoever was removing the trap first, but without a long-range weapon he would have to deal with them at close quarters. And from the rumble of engines in the distance, he could tell that his other two rivals were closing in.

He backed the bike away a little, until its rear wheel was almost at the mouth of another alley. If one of the other riders failed to see him in the near-darkness and crashed into him, it would certainly take out his competitor but it would damage his sleek RC30 too. _But how to slag them without getting slagged?_

He looked around, glancing into the alley, and saw something sticking out of a pile of garbage. It looked like a long metal rod.

Wildrider reversed quickly and grabbed it up. _A crowbar, good enough!_ He thrust it between his knee and the side of the bike.

Before he could do anything else the woman in the Autobot T-shirt sped over the spot he had been on only moments earlier, moving so fast she was a blur. _Fragging streetfighter,_ Wildrider thought as he gunned his engine. The RC30's fairing, its outer shell, made it tough, but weighed it down compared to the sleek Ducati, reminding him of the difference between his and Drag Strip's alt-modes. He guessed that just keeping pace with the streetfighter would be the most his own machine could do.

_But I've got a weapon now,_ he thought as he fed the engine more gas and peeled out. The streetfighter was fast, but Wildrider had yet to meet anyone – human or Cybertronian – with his complete disregard for everything in his way, whether it be another driver or the laws of physics. He slammed the throttle, all but grinding the speedometer needle against the last gradation on the dial. The engine was starting to overheat, but he ignored that as he steadily drew level with the woman, his front tire parallel with her fender and struggling to inch past it.

He grabbed the crowbar and thrust it at her rear wheel.

The bar was wrenched out of his hand as the wheel spun it around. Wildrider swerved to avoid a burst of sparks as the bar struck the ground and the Ducati went out of control, the woman fighting to steer as it careened away. Before she could recover, the front tire smashed into the curb – still at top speed.

The Ducati flipped over, flinging the woman against the sidewalk so hard that the blue visor of her helmet shattered. Wildrider goosed his brakes for a better look, but to his disappointment her T-shirt was unsalvageable.

The snarl of another engine grew louder and he reflexively twisted the throttle. That was the only thing which saved him. The RC30 bolted forward an instant before a gun went off, and a window a few feet from his head shattered.

Wildrider's fuel pump hammered in his chest as the Kawasaki flew past him. The man in grey fired again. He didn't even see where the bullet went that time; all he heard was his own laughter as he slammed the throttle again, chasing his last competitor.

The Kawasaki's rear wheel kicked up bits of gravel that spattered off his windscreen. Still riding, the man in grey half-twisted around, firing again and again.

Wildrider ducked, throwing his weight from side to side to make the RC30 weave. Bullets tore away one of his side-view mirrors, punched through the bike's fairing and clipped the edge of the windscreen, but to his relief they didn't damage the tires. When the man in grey turned around again, he dared to straighten up and coax some more speed out of his bike.

But the Kawasaki kept just ahead of him. Wildrider wasn't sure why, though he guessed it had a supercharger – probably nitrous oxide – and even with his engine hammering at its limit the most he could do was tail the man in grey. His fuel gauge, he realized, was hovering on E. Had a bullet hit that somehow? He didn't know; all he knew was that he had to stop the man in grey. _No weapon, not much fuel, not even anything to throw at the fragger—_

_Except one thing._

Wildrider tore at the strap of his helmet, doing his best to steer with one hand, then hefted the helmet in the other hand like a bowling ball. _I only get one throw,_ he thought as he stared at the man in grey just ahead. He didn't have Cybertronian processors to calculate speed and trajectory in nanoseconds, or mechanical limb components that could have spanned a mile with the makeshift missile; he had nothing except the joy of the chase and the terrorist's instincts that told him to stop stalling and just _DO_ it—

He flung the helmet with all his strength and it struck the man solidly on the back of the head. The impact knocked him forward. To Wildrider's delight, the man lost his grip on the handlebars and fell from the Kawasaki entirely, rolling when he hit the road and fetching up on his back. The riderless bike smashed into a side of a parked car.

Wildrider mashed his own brakes and slammed his feet against the road so hard the friction burned through the soles of his sneakers as the rear half of the RC30 slewed to a halt. One heel shoved the kickstand down and he vaulted off the bike. The man in grey shook his head in a half-dazed way, reaching into his jacket, but Wildrider got to him first. He slammed a knee into the man's stomach and shoved a hand inside the grey jacket, searching for the gun.

Gasoline gurgled out of the Kawasaki's ruined fuel tank, the sound nearly drowning out the rapid footsteps approaching behind him. Wildrider turned, saw a blur coming down at his face and raised an arm instinctively. A fist smashed into his forearm, turning it numb with shock, but Wildrider lashed one foot out in a backward kick. His heel drove into his attacker's shin.

But before he could use his brief advantage, the man in grey struck out with the gun. The barrel hit Wildrider just below one eye, splitting flesh down to one cheekbone, and for a moment the world went white with pain. In that instant a thick arm snaked around his neck and tightened like a noose. His right hand was caught as well and pulled up painfully behind his back.

Wildrider struggled a little, then deliberately went limp. He had once fooled Drag Strip by doing that when they had tussled, and he could tell that the man choking him was almost as strong as Motormaster. The smell of sweat and cigarette smoke rolled off the man in near-solid waves as the vise-like grip relaxed.

Then a point of searing agony burned into Wildrider's forehead just over one temple.

Wildrider screamed involuntarily, flailing with his free arm. His eyes flew open as his hand connected, and he saw what had burned him – a lit cigarette – arc through the air and it hit the ground nearby. The man holding him twisted him around and slammed him face-down against the asphalt.

Tiny bits of dirt and gravel stuck to the blood still oozing down his cheek. Wildrider kicked out blindly and furiously until he felt someone else's weight come down across his legs.

He heard soft metallic sounds like small components clinking together, and turned his head back as far as he could to see what was happening. The burn on his forehead throbbed unbearably, but he almost forgot about it when he caught a glimpse of the man in grey. Something small glinted between the man's fingers. When he lowered it, Wildrider felt a sharp point prick the back of his right knee.

Suddenly he knew why Marcelo had called his rival "Jimmy the Nail". He struggled again, but with his right arm still pinioned behind his back and both men's weight on him, he had no leverage.

A streetlight flickered and then brightened. It turned the spreading pool of gasoline iridescent and threw a distorted, elongated shadow on the street before Wildrider – the silhouette of a hammer raised high over his leg.

Wildrider looked desperately from side to side for a weapon, for anything that would save him. But nothing was within reach – except the smoldering butt of the cigarette that had burned him.

He swung his free arm along the ground in a hard fast sweep. The cigarette sailed through the air, glowing even more brightly, and landed in the fuel. Even before it splashed in, the fumes ignited with a _fsssh_ and the Kawasaki's gas tank exploded.

Since Wildrider was already on the ground he escaped the worst of it, but the two men holding him jolted sideways. Wildrider wrenched his arm free, twisted around and grabbed the hammer. The bigger man caught his wrist to keep the weapon away and then made the mistake of flinging his weight across Wildrider to hold him down, bringing his face conveniently close. Wildrider jerked up and bit him.

He howled and lurched back, hands over his face. The man in grey had already stumbled away through the thick smoke, heading for the RC30, and Wildrider pitched the hammer at the back of his head. The other man beat a hasty retreat, still holding his face as if afraid it would fall off at any moment.

Exhausted, Wildrider dragged himself to his feet and staggered to the RC30. His own face felt none too good at the moment, and he suddenly wished he was home, even with Motormaster slapping him around and Drag Strip being nasty. The heat made his skin drip, his clothes were filthy and the fun of the race was gone. Even though he knew he had won, there didn't seem to be much point in a victory where no one cared whether he was damaged or not.

The people waiting near the abandoned warehouse told him no one had ever crossed the finish line going at the speed limit before, but Wildrider barely listened as he collected his winnings and started on the long ride back.

* * *

"You a mess," was Marcelo's only comment after he opened the door and took a long look at Wildrider.

"Yeah, but I'm a rich mess." Wildrider tried to grin, then winced as that hurt his cheek. He reached into his jacket and produced a handful of crumpled banknotes, tightly wadded together.

He had thought once or twice of simply walking away with the money. On the other hand, if he had learned anything from the Stunticons' time in human society, it was that cooperating with humans, boring though it was, earned more money – albeit not upfront – than stealing from them did. And that was a far safer excuse he could give Motormaster than his other reason for returning to Marcelo's apartment… he was lonely.

It felt nice to be welcomed, to get a smile of approval and have someone fuss over him. Marcelo gave him a cold beer and a colder icepack for his face while he counted off two hundred dollars of the take.

"You wanna race again?" he said as he sat down heavily in a chair and turned the TV on.

"Sure!" Wildrider considered. "But I want more money next time."

Marcelo laughed. "Tough customer. I like that. Leave me your number and I'll be in touch." Wildrider scribbled it down and Marcelo lit another sweet-smelling cigarette, took a long pull on it and then held it out, butt end first.

Wildrider took it and imitated the dragging inhale, trying to make it look casual, before he handed the cigarette back. The damage he had taken seemed to recede behind a slow sense of well-being that turned into a pleasant haze, but after a few more moments he got up. Motormaster would be torqued off if he was late.

So he finished his beer and took a cab back home. As he had expected, even after receiving the money Motormaster was furious, partly because Wildrider had left without telling anyone where he was going. Wildrider tried to explain that _he_ hadn't known where he was headed, so there was no way he could have informed anyone else about it.

Motormaster's eyes narrowed to slivers. "From the looks of you, someone else already slagged you, so you're confined to quarters for three days," he said. "Try leaving and I'll put your head through the wall. Now get out of my sight."

_Great._ Wildrider could only hope that Marcelo wouldn't come up with any great opportunities for racing within the next three days. He got up, unzipping his jacket.

"What happened to them?" Motormaster said from behind him. "The humans who jumped you?"

He turned. "Slagged 'em back."

Motormaster nodded fractionally and Wildrider headed for the washracks. He kicked off his sneakers, then dumped the rest of his clothes in a heap. When he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, the sight made him grimace – the cut across his cheek had turned to a dark scab, and the burn on his forehead looked worse. It was still painful to the touch.

He turned the shower on, cold. Even if anyone had wanted to join him under a spray of icy needles, they wouldn't have had time. Wildrider scrubbed himself down at speed, toweled himself off roughly and went back to his room. Drag Strip had been sitting on the edge of the bed, but he got up at once and left.

All the loneliness Wildrider had held back during that night threatened to break past his control. Clearly Drag Strip was still holding a grudge – or was jealous that Wildrider had won a race – and didn't even want to share the room with him. _Well, I don't care. I get the whole fragging bed to myself._ He flopped down on the mattress, wondering whether to trash the place. Drag Strip liked it neat.

The door creaked open. Drag Strip slipped back in, Wildrider's discarded clothes bundled in his arms. He set the sneakers neatly by the door, hung up the jacket and put the rest into the laundry pile. Then he sat down on the other side of the bed, keeping a careful distance between himself and Wildrider.

The room was very quiet, and after another minute or so Wildrider gave in; he couldn't stand the silence. "I won't try and 'face you again if you hate it so much," he said.

Drag Strip shifted as if he had sat on something pointy. "I don't mind you touching me," he said finally. "But humans get so damp and smelly when they get turned on. I see it in the club all the time."

Wildrider rolled over on to his side, propping his head up on an elbow, and wondered if Drag Strip planned to go without until they got their real frames back. Probably, knowing how stubborn he could be.

Drag Strip stretched out on the bed. "Guess they can't help being turned on, watching me. But it's still revolting."

Wildrider reached for Drag Strip's hand and nuzzled the inside of his wrist. "You're right," he said before pressing his lips to the skin. He felt fine strong lines, like cables and wires, beneath his mouth. "It's gross."

"Yeah," Drag Strip agreed. "That's why so many humans have to pay for it."

Wildrider nearly asked how much they normally paid, but stopped himself in time. He parted his lips, sensing a little surge throb through the skin beneath them, and traced a circle with the tip of his tongue.

"I wonder if the others think it's gross too," he murmured as he began to kiss his way down Drag Strip's arm.

"Breakdown'd try it just 'cause that's what humans do and he wants to pass for one." Drag Strip swallowed as Wildrider found the inside of his elbow, nipped it lightly and then licked the skin. It was a moment before he went on. "And he probably polished the Depressedicon until _he_ gave in."

Wildrider smiled and moved to Drag Strip's chest, teasing one of the little knobs with his teeth before he drew it into his mouth. He felt Drag Strip trying to raise his head, probably to see what he was doing, and stopped at once.

"What about Motormaster?" he said.

Drag Strip's breathing was audible and faster. "What about him?"

"You think he'd ever want to try it?" Wildrider began to edge away, moving slowly down Drag Strip's body.

"Frag no. He hates everything about... what are you doing?"

"Well, I'm not 'facing you, sunshine." Wildrider rubbed his uninjured cheek against Drag Strip's abdominal plating, then blew on the enticingly smooth skin below that. He gripped Drag Strip's narrow hips to hold them steady and moved lower. "'Cause that would be gross, right?"

"Yeah, but – what _are_ you doing? Wildrider, if you bite me there I'll kill you. I mean it, I'll rip your arms off and beat you to… oh. Ohhhh."

* * *

_Three days later…_

"Hi," Wildrider said brightly, sticking his hand out the way humans usually did when they first met each other. He had arrived as early as possible to make sure he got this particular job. "My friend told me there was a position open at your erotic petting zoo. I'm here to apply for it."

The manager, who had taken his hand and begun to shake it, went still. "I may have misheard you, Mr. Wildes," she said, releasing his hand. "This is a petting zoo for exotic animals that have been abandoned by their owners. We need someone to clean out the cages. Are you applying for _that_ job?"

_Damn it, Breakdown!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The car Wildrider drove in the last chapter was the one Templeton Peck, aka Face, drove in _The A-Team_.


End file.
